Beyond Blame

by Stephen Greenleaf

She shook her head. “Do you know who it was? That shot at us?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “No.”

  “But you know why, don’t you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Sure you do. He shot because he was afraid at least one of us knows who killed your mother.”

  “But I don’t,” Lisa protested.

  “I think you do. You just don’t realize it. If you tell me everything, maybe I can put it all together.”

  Lisa didn’t say anything, she just glanced at Cal, then took another nibble on her jerky.

  “It’s time you talked to me, Lisa. The Maniac’s dead. You don’t need to protect him anymore. You’ll be better off if you get it off your chest. Murder’s a heavy load to carry around.”

  Lisa closed her eyes. Cal crawled over to where she was lying and put his arm around her. “Come on, Lisa. You said you’d talk to him. Why don’t you just get it over with? Then we can split. Go down to Santa Cruz or something. Hang out on the beach and forget about Berkeley for a while.”

  The police might have other plans for Lisa, depending on what she told me, but I didn’t point that out. Instead, I let Cal do my work for me. He lowered his voice and murmured words I couldn’t hear, and stroked Lisa’s flank to the rhythm of the Persian music. “Okay, okay,” Lisa said finally. “Just don’t push me; okay, Cal? Just let me do it my way.”

  Lisa sat up and wrapped her arms across her chest and began to rock, up and back, eyes closed again, head lowered, breaths deep and labored. Cal and I just watched her. “Okay,” she said after a minute, meeting my eyes. “Here’s the way it went down. But this is everything I know. I mean, just let me tell it, okay? No questions; no comments. Just let me tell it and then do what you have to do. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Will you tell the cops?”

  “Probably.”

  “Okay. I know you have to. I just, well, tell them I didn’t know what to do, you know? Maybe I could have stopped some of it, but I didn’t know how. That’s all I can say. I just didn’t know what to do.” She began to cry. Cal started to comfort her but she shrugged him away.

  She sniffed back her tears and wiped her eyes and looked at me, suddenly a child who was far too young to know what she knew, to have done what she’d done. A million parents must look at their children and have the same reaction.

  “Okay,” Lisa began. “First, the Maniac killed Sherry. Okay? Sherry Misteen. He killed her, and buried her in the park and took a tape of it and gave it to me. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “But I didn’t know any of this till after, okay? I mean, I didn’t know he actually did it. He said he was going to, but I didn’t believe him, not till he gave me her fingernails. God. It was so gross. I mean, back then I didn’t know … I didn’t know he really was crazy, that he actually did the stuff he was always talking about, like killing that girl and everything. I didn’t even remember Daddy had been his lawyer. I didn’t put any of that together at all, till after he killed Sherry.”

  “That’s true,” Cal interjected, but Lisa silenced him with a frown.

  “Most guys are just blowing smoke, you know?” Lisa went on, her monotone a match to the music. “They rap about drugs and sex and all this low-life crap, but it’s all mind games, trying to get to your cunt by going through your brain. But not the Maniac. He really wanted to blow you into another mind zone. To make you see things in a different way, hear the voices he heard, and like that. He—I don’t know—he was weird but he wasn’t all bad, you know? He did things for me. Talked to me. Listened. Understood. When I went down to him, I was ready to kill myself, and he made me decide to stay alive. I owe him for that, you know?”

  I nodded.

  Lisa sagged back against the pillow once again, and I let her rest for a minute while I caught up to what she’d been saying and got a fix on what else I needed to know. I’d pretty much guessed that the Maniac had killed Sherry Misteen, but what I hadn’t guessed was why it happened, so that’s what I asked her.

  “My old man,” Lisa answered simply. “That’s how the whole thing started. With my goddamned old man.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  “He’s such a bastard,” Lisa said between clenched teeth. “I still can’t believe he did it. I can’t fucking believe it, you know?”

  “What did he do? Molest you?”

  “He fucked Sherry. He stuck his dick in my best friend.”

  Her final words were a scream that seemed to shred her voice. When she spoke again she was a stranger who had aged and sickened in the past few seconds. “He couldn’t leave them alone. Any of them. All those law students, I used to hear him brag about it to her, how he’d banged some sweet young thing. So why did he have to do it to Sherry? Huh? That’s what I don’t get. She was my age, you know? He might as well have been fucking me.”

  A Freudian might have worked for years with her final phrase, and Lisa might have been the better for it. But I do my business on the surface—action and reaction, deed and consequence, crime and punishment. Only after it was over, and all the pieces were fit into the puzzle and all the strings were tied, could I lie back in my recliner and sip a little Dewar’s and delve into the depths of the unconscious regions of the minds I had encountered, to try to take it back to where it started.

  But this one wasn’t over yet; this puzzle was still scattered across the floor. “So that’s why you ran away,” I said. “You found out Sherry and your father had an affair so you hit the streets and hooked up with the Maniac. Right?”

  Lisa nodded.

  “How did you find out about them?”

  “Sherry told me. She got mad when I wouldn’t let her wear my jellies.”

  “You told the Maniac all about it, right? About how angry you were at both of them? How you wished they both were dead? Or was it only Sherry?”

  She nodded once again. “Sherry.”

  “And the Maniac took you seriously. You said you wanted Sherry dead, so he decided to do it. Maybe to pay back your father for getting him off the murder charge, in some perverted way, by helping you. That was the beast he was talking about over at Hell House. The one that was feeding on your soul. He killed Sherry as a favor to you.”

  “Yes. God. I … I started doing more drugs to forget about it, you know? To keep it out of my head, that he actually murdered Sherry because I was so pissed at her.”

  “So did he kill your mother, too? Was that part of the favor?”

  Lisa was shaking her head. “That’s the thing. I don’t think he killed Dianne. I really don’t. He never talked about it or anything, and I think he would have if he’d done it. Plus, he and my father, you know, had this relationship. Because Daddy defended him and all that? I don’t think he would have done that to Daddy.”

  “Sometimes we start to hate the ones who help us, Lisa. Sometimes we can’t deal with the obligation.”

  “I know, but …”

  “Did the Maniac put the tape in your father’s study or did you?”

  “I did.”

  “So your father would see it by accident sometime? See what had happened to the girl he’d betrayed you with?”

  She nodded.

  “And when you saw him last week with Krista Hellgren you decided he was up to his old tricks again, so you told the police he’d killed your mother.”

  “Yes.”

  “And threatened you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you still hate him, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “So you put the scissors in his plant, to frame him.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “No, I didn’t do that. I don’t know anything about any scissors.”

  That stumped me. My mind groped for a new answer.

  “That was me,” Cal said suddenly. I looked at him in surprise. “You put the scissors in the plant?”

  He nodded.

  “What else did you do?”

  �
�I was there, see?” he said, his eyes eager and innocent. “Just after Dianne was killed. I was looking for that stash I told you about. Hell, I didn’t even think anyone was home. Then I’m walking down the hall upstairs, and I glance into the Ussers’ bedroom, and wow. There she was, blood all over the place, the room totally trashed. I almost barfed. I still get nightmares, man. I got this blood on me and it won’t come off.”

  “You thought the Maniac had done it, right? Just like he did to Sherry.”

  Cal nodded.

  “And you were afraid Lisa would be arrested too, for helping him or something, so you cleaned up the place so it would look like a more normal thing, not something crazy.”

  “Yeah. It was bizarro in there, man. Stuff ripped up. Writing on the walls. Piss. He pissed on her body, man. Sorry, Lisa. But it was total splatter. Friday the Thirteenth—Part Ninety-nine. I tried to straighten it up but there wasn’t much time. When I heard someone coming, I grabbed the scissors and took off. That day you caught me behind the house, I was in there putting the scissors in Usser’s fucking plant. Even if he didn’t kill Dianne, what he did to Lisa was lame enough to stick him with the death penalty, right?”

  “Wrong,” I said.

  “Come on. He was a child-fucker.”

  “But not a murderer, Cal. Was there anything in the bedroom that indicated who the murderer really was? Anything at all?”

  “Naw. Just a big scramble, was what it was.”

  “Did you take anything away but the scissors?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re each telling me you don’t know who killed Dianne Renzel?”

  They looked at each other and nodded.

  “Do you think your father could have done it, Lisa? In all honesty?”

  Lisa didn’t move. From her look she was thinking thoughts she didn’t want to deal with. Finally she shook her head. “No. I don’t think Daddy did it.”

  “Okay. Let me think a minute.”

  I closed my eyes and drifted with the information I’d just acquired. Three people were dead. One suicide and one murder were explained. The most important one, the one I’d been hired to solve, was still a mystery. I tried to link it up, but I kept floating back to the beginning, the most obvious possibility a stoned junkie who entered the Usser family’s battlefield by accident.

  I looked at Cal. “You didn’t plant a book in there, did you? Or leave one behind by accident?”

  Cal frowned. “What book?”

  “It’s called The Astral Light.”

  He shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

  “That’s the Maniac’s book,” Lisa said. “He carried it around all the time. He called it his Bible.”

  “But he loaned it to you, didn’t he?”

  Lisa nodded. “So what?”

  “It was found beneath your mother’s body.”

  Lisa’s protest was immediate. “But I didn’t—”

  “I know,” I interrupted. “You loaned the book to someone, didn’t you?”

  Lisa frowned, then shook her head. “I lost it. I don’t know where. The Maniac was pissed at me.”

  “Okay Lisa. Now think about this carefully. Did you tell anyone what the Maniac claimed he was going to do for you? Did you tell anyone at all that Nifton was bragging how he was going to kill Sherry Misteen? Before it happened?”

  Lisa closed her eyes, then nodded. “Sure. Sure I did.” She opened her eyes and looked at me and named him. “Was it him? Is he the one who killed my mom?”

  I told her I’d let her know when I was certain.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Hello?”

  “My name is Tanner. We met—”

  “I remember. What can I do for you?”

  “Perhaps you remember you expressed surprise when I mentioned I was a member of the bar.”

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “Being a lawyer comes in handy sometimes. This looks like one of them.”

  “Am I supposed to understand this?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about a case. A lawsuit.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t discuss pending litigation, Mr. Tanner. For obvious reasons.”

  “I’m not talking about a pending case, I’m talking about an old one.”

  “Which one?”

  “Tarasoff versus The Regents of the University of California.”

  “But I wasn’t involved in that case.”

  “Not personally, no. But I’m sure you’re familiar with the rule of law it established for people like yourself.”

  “Of course. But I still don’t understand what you’re driving at.”

  “I believe the rule of Tarasoff explains why you murdered Dianne Renzel.”

  “What? Are you out of your mind?”

  “No, but you might be. But then you’d know better than I, wouldn’t you?”

  “Where are you, Mr. Tanner?”

  “In a phone booth on Telegraph Avenue.”

  “Have you gone to the police with this nonsense?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you realize what it would do to me if I’m charged with that crime? Even if I’m ultimately declared innocent?”

  “I imagine it will be quite similar to what’s been happening to Lawrence Usser.”

  He paused. “Perhaps. The charge itself would ruin me, even if I’m eventually exonerated. Surely you can see that.”

  “Sure. I can see that just fine.”

  “Well, don’t you think I deserve a chance to persuade you that you’re wrong? As a matter of professional courtesy, if nothing more?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Surely you can’t be completely convinced of your speculations. If there was any hard evidence of what you suggest, the police would have already arrested me.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I have to be at the Greek Theater in thirty minutes. It’s a rather unique form of therapy I conduct, for some of my pro bono patients. Perhaps I could meet you there. At ten o’clock? Then, if you feel the same way after we’ve talked, you’ll be free to take your suspicions to the police. Well?”

  “I suppose you deserve that much.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you shortly. I trust you’ll be alone.”

  He hung up before I could respond.

  I was being foolish in delaying giving the whole thing to Bart Kinn, but Kinn had taken a lot of pleasure in my mistake the night before, too much pleasure for me to go to him with anything less than a fact. Plus, I agreed to meet him because he was right. I wasn’t completely confident of my hunch, not beyond a reasonable doubt I wasn’t, and tangible evidence to support it might never be found. The only person who could provide the proof that would convince me to a moral certainty was Dr. A. Adam Lonborg himself.

  I hung up the receiver. The telephone in the booth rang almost immediately, while I still huddled inside. I started to ignore it, but as I pulled open the door I noticed a young man in a dashiki and a yarmulke standing on the sidewalk, grinning, daring me to answer. I picked up the receiver to prove something, I wasn’t sure quite what.

  “This is the Goddess speaking.” The voice was a sensual contralto. “Were you waiting for my call?”

  “Not exactly. I was just here.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you for answering the phone. You must be in need. Are you?”

  “Presumably.”

  “Have I spoken to you before?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I welcome new friends. Are you all right? Physically, I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “So you don’t need emergency treatment.”

  “No.”

  “How about food? Clothing? Shelter?”

  “Nope. None of those.”

  “I see. Good. I speak with many who lack the most basic items. It’s difficult to go beyond the rudiments when the rudiments themselves are absent. No?”

  “Yes.”

  “So perhaps you lack companionship. Are you alone?
”

  “From time to time.”

  “I know people who will entertain you. Do you want me to arrange a meeting?”

  “No. Not now. Thanks, anyway.”

  “Are you sure? You sound lonely to me. You sound like you haven’t spoken from your heart in a very long time.”

  “Look, I’ve got to—”

  “The subject embarrasses you. I understand. Perfectly. I have one last question, then you may ask me what you will and I will answer truthfully, to the extent the truth is known. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “What is the state of your spirit, sir? Is there truth and beauty in your life?”

  “Lots of truth; not much beauty,” I said, and then I said goodbye. The kid in the dashiki was still grinning at me as I walked back to my car.

  I drove to Bowditch Street and double-parked in front of the Community Crisis Center. Sandra was behind her typewriter and there was still someone weeping in the waiting room, though this time it was a man. “I have to talk to Richards for a minute,” I said to Sandra. “It’ll only take a second.”

  “But—”

  “Just ask him. Please. It’s very important.”

  She pressed a button on her telephone console and in a moment Pierce Richards emerged from his office. The only change since the day before was the color of his cords. “What do you want?” he asked impatiently.

  “Did Dianne Renzel keep a log of all her phone calls?”

  “Yes,” Richards said. “The entire staff does. Why?”

  “Would you tell me if there’s a particular name on hers? On the day she died? Just one name, and he’s not a patient.”

  “I thought we’d been over this, Mr. Tanner. The records are confidential.”

  “It’s Lonborg,” I said. “Adam Lonborg, the shrink. It’s important for me to know if Dianne Renzel talked to him that Friday. There’s nothing confidential about that information, Mr. Richards. Nothing at all.”

  “I—”

  “I’m close to naming her killer, Richards. This information could make the difference.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Richards went over to a gray metal file cabinet and pulled out the top drawer and thumbed through some papers. After a few seconds he stopped, then read for a moment, then looked over at me. “Yes,” he said. “She called him twice. At 1:15, and then at 3:05.”