The Evil That Men Do

by Robert D. Rodman

  Lucy was pacing up and down, almost as if reenacting her movements in the house. I shuddered at her brashness. I’d have kept going out the back and found reinforcements, and I’m usually armed.

  “I went back inside to check out her bedroom. I turned into the hall and something made me hesitate. I sensed movement, not directly, but reflected in the pattern of light and shadow coming from the bedroom. I called to Judy again. I was starting to freak out big time. I knew I should get the hell out of there. The last thing I needed was a rapist, but I had to find Judy. I retreated and opened the front door wide. That gave me an escape route. I went back into the hallway and listened. All I could hear was our electric fan blowing. There was no other sound. I moved closer to the bedroom door, and then I saw her feet.”

  Lucy had stopped pacing now. She sat down. She was gnawing her lower lip so hard I was afraid she’d draw blood. Her eyes were filling with tears; her voice barely a squeak.

  “They were not touching the ground. I closed my eyes and shook my head real hard to chase away the vision. When I opened them the feet were pointing in a different direction.”

  I put my hand to my mouth, seeing now all too clearly where the tale led.

  “I wished I hadn’t hesitated earlier. I rushed into the room and Judy was hanging by an electrical cord buried in the flesh of her neck. Her face was swollen beyond recognition. I jumped up on the bed, grabbed the light fixture above her head, and swung. The weight of our two bodies broke it loose from the ceiling. We ended up in a heap. I clawed at the cord to loosen it but it was hopelessly embedded. I tried to remember my first-aid class. Mouth-to-mouth, I kept thinking, but what was the use with the cord so terribly tight around her neck? She was gone, and nothing I could do would bring her back.”

  Lucy was sobbing again, tears brimming from her eyes and tracking down her cheeks. I found a box of tissues and walked around my desk to hand them to her. I forced myself not to give in to my own emotions. I leaned down next to her and put my hand on the arm of her chair. She wiped her eyes, then cupped her hands over face and lowered her head. It was a full minute before she could speak again.

  “I called 911. Within minutes there were campus cops, city cops, a fire engine, the EMT truck. Some plainclothes cops showed up a short time later. Then the crime lab people, the ones with the orange jump suits, came. They scoured the place, took dozens of photos. The plainclothes cops asked me a zillion questions about what had happened earlier. I was in a daze, drained, but I guess I told them what they needed. It was nearly five o’clock when they finished. A crowd had gathered and dispersed. My neighbors from two doors down, a married couple, took me in, gave me brandy in milk, and put me to bed. I slept until noon Saturday.”

  She paused, thinking, and then she suddenly regained her composure. To my surprise, she grinned, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds of rain.

  “When I woke up, I was lucid. Lucy was lucid.”

  She emitted a sound that was half-snort, half-laugh. I managed a smile, and reached out to her, gently squeezing her shoulder.

  “My mind had been at work while I slept," she said, adding, "I do this all the time. Lots of students do. You stay up late and bandy about a bunch of facts and theories. Then you go to bed. When you wake up, you’re able to make a lot more sense of them.”

  No stranger to this phenomenon, I nodded in agreement.

  “I woke up knowing Judy didn’t kill herself," Lucy said emphatically. "She wasn’t that type of person. She wasn’t impulsive or flighty or highly emotional. Judy might kill herself, but she’d reason about it for days, weighing the pros and cons. And she’d leave a note. In fact, she’d probably leave an essay. But the cops didn’t find anything.”

  Lucy thought for a moment. In the silence I stood up straight and stretched, then half sat, half leaned on the back of my desk, still close to her. She was fingering the little crucifix that hung about her neck, her eyes cast down. Then she raised her head and looked straight at me, her jaw set, her eyes flashing. “Miss Jamison, someone murdered Judy.”

  Chapter 2

  Lucy’s earnestness was compelling, but the play of events that she’d described didn’t seem like murder. “Please call me Dagny, okay?” I said, and with a reassuring smile that I hoped didn’t betray my skepticism asked, “Why’d someone want to kill her?”

  Lucy dropped her gaze. “Okay, Dagny, then. I don’t know about a motive, if that’s the right word. I just know she didn’t kill herself. I spent the whole weekend arguing about this with everyone. No one believes me, not even my own mom. She says I have a lurid imagination. ‘Now Lucy, with all you’ve been through…’” She spoke the words with a falsetto twang that caricatured her mother's voice.

  “Sparky was the only one who took me seriously, maybe because of what had happened to her parents. She didn’t think I’d get too far with the cops, since they’d already been there and made up their minds. That’s why she suggested I see you.”

  “The coroner’s office will order an autopsy,” I said. “If there was foul play, one of the medical examiners will find it. They’re competent.”

  “Would they have done it over the weekend?” asked Lucy. “How could I find out?”

  “She’d have been examined at the scene to fix the time of death, although that was hardly necessary since she was seen alive, what, half an hour before?”

  “About that.”

  “At the same time, they’d look for evidence of a struggle. They’d examine her for signs of bodily harm such as bullet holes or knife wounds, head injuries, ligature marks on her wrists and legs, stuff like that. A person can be murdered by hanging but they have to be disabled somehow. It’s hard to disable a person without leaving a trace.”

  “What are ligature marks? I thought those occurred in music.”

  “Sorry, it’s cop talk for the marks left after a person’s been tied up.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’d be taken to the morgue and scheduled for an autopsy today or tomorrow, I’d guess.”

  I walked over to bookshelves and pulled down a well-used volume.

  Lucy's eyes followed me.

  I leafed through the book while speaking. “Even if they’re sure it’s suicide, they have to do the autopsy because it’s a—” I found the right page “—‘sudden, violent, or unexpected death that may not have had a natural cause.’” (I was quoting the appropriate legal code. Not great literature but very practical.)

  “What if they don’t find anything?”

  “Then that’s it. The body can be claimed by her family.” I paused for a moment. “I’m sorry, Lucy. It’s dreadful business, but to be honest, I just don’t see what I can do.”

  “Could I hire you to tell them to look extra carefully? I’m not even sure where to go or where her body is or who to talk to. Even if they don’t find anything, I want to hire you to look into it. I should get my fellowship check today. I can pay your fee.”

  I checked my watch. Quarter to nine and I had to interview this witness for John, except I’d be without a Spanish interpreter. I acted impulsively. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. I need to interview this Chilean man, Fernando Mendoza Vareta.” I read the name with my best Spanish accent. Lucy was unimpressed. “He witnessed an accident and I need someone to interpret. You do that for me and we’ll talk in my car on the way over. Afterward, we’ll go over to SB General and find out who’s doing the autopsy. What do you say?”

  “You mean right now?”

  “Yeah, if you have time.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.” She stood up and grabbed her handbag.

  “Frankly, if there’s no sign of murder and no motive for a murderer, I’m not going to waste your money or my time,” I added.

  She looked at me blandly and didn’t say anything.

  “Vamonos, then,” I said. I was getting in the mood for this Spanish gig. Lucy rolled her eyes.

  We got in the Taurus and headed for the 101. We needed to go to Goleta, the
bedroom community west of Santa Barbara. I got out the directions and handed them to Lucy. “You navigate, and while not getting me lost, tell me about Judy.”

  She studied the paper, checked the street sign, and when she was satisfied I wasn’t getting myself lost she began talking.

  “Well, we met at UCLA, I guess in some classes we took at the same time. Then, when I came up to Isla Vista, she turned up in the same dorm as me, even though she’d been there longer. And we just sort of hit it off, you know how that happens. One day we were just talking and saying how tired we were of dorm life, and wouldn’t it be cool to live in an apartment or even a small house. Turned out, there are these little rental houses for graduate students, so we applied for one, and I guess we were just lucky to get it.”

  “Where’s she from?” I asked.

  “She grew up in L.A., Beverly Hills actually, but she wasn’t your typical rich, spoiled Beverly Hills brat. She always worked and studied hard. I think her father would’ve spoiled her, especially after her mother died, and let me see, that was when she was fourteen or fifteen when it happened. Her mother was young when she had Judy. She was his second wife, maybe a trophy wife. I never asked. But she had mental problems and—wow, I hadn’t thought of this before—she killed herself, I’m almost sure by hanging. Judy didn’t much like to talk about it, but anyway, Judy, she wasn’t ever depressed or anything.”

  “What got her interested in the Churoks?”

  “She liked to have friends from all different backgrounds and countries. She took anthropology out of curiosity for other cultures, and she took linguistics because through languages she gained access to those cultures. With the Churoks, she combined…Whoa, you need to get over a lane, sorry.”

  I blinkered the Taurus to the left and nearly cut off a police cruiser. I made a quick palms-out shrug of apology. The officer waggled a finger in my rearview mirror, but the blue light stayed off.

  “Anyway,” resumed Lucy, “since Isla Vista has Dr. Akrich, who’s one of the leading experts on the Churoks, she opted to go there to study with him, just as I did. She was a straight A student. And here’s the thing. She was completely honest. She wouldn’t even fib to a professor about a toothache if she hadn’t finished some homework on time, let alone copy someone.”

  “Did Judy have any ex-husbands or lovers?”

  “She’d had the usual flings, maybe slept with half a dozen guys. For the past year, until last Easter, she had a pretty serious boyfriend, Troy Stanton.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “For some reason he stopped working on his dissertation about six months ago. He was living off his fellowship but wasn’t really doing any work. I think it bugged Judy. It seemed dishonest to her. He said he was staying on to be with her, that he loved her. That worked for a while—we women are such suckers for that line—but eventually Judy bit the bullet and broke it off.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “Not too well. They argued. He made some vague threats about what he’d do if he saw her with another man, but she didn’t take them seriously. He tried to hang out around our place but Judy wouldn’t have it. He was jealous of her because she was smarter than him, and about to get her degree.”

  “How about drugs?”

  “Judy was squeaky clean. Didn’t smoke, hardly drank. Troy smoked a little dope and maybe did some coke too, which didn’t help their relationship.”

  “So she didn’t run up a big drug bill or sell stuff? Dealers might have got nasty if they weren’t getting paid.”

  “No way. I’d know, believe me.”

  “Are there any siblings?”

  “She has a half-brother who lives in Houston, I think. He’s married with a couple of kids. But I don’t think they’re close.”

  “Same father?”

  “Uh-huh, by the first wife.”

  “Do they stand to share an inheritance?”

  “Probably. Her father’s pretty rich, but he’s still not that old. He’s not fat, doesn’t smoke, and works out. He’s actually a cool dude for a dad. He’ll probably marry someone younger like the first time, and she’ll get all his money. You need to get off at Buena Vista, according to this.”

  I changed lanes, taking particular care not to cut off any police cruisers, and glided down the off-ramp. While Lucy navigated, I briefed her on the subject of the impending interview.

  “About a month ago two guys, brothers, lost control of their ’79 Cutlass and smashed through the plate glass storefront of an auto parts dealer. The vehicle shattered display cases, annihilated the service counter, and took out a dozen shelves of spare parts. From the photos, it was a god-awful mess, though by some miracle nobody was hurt. The brothers were suspected of switching places after the accident to cover for the one that had a suspended license. Their insurance company hired us to find out who was really driving. Insurance companies are picky about those kinds of details. An unlicensed driver might save them from having to pay out.”

  “And this Hispanic man—he saw it happen?” said Lucy.

  “Apparently. It went by so fast that the people in the shop were too busy scrambling to see much, but Vareta was on the sidewalk a few feet away and had a good view of the accident and its aftermath. So we go to this address—he’s expecting us—and find the man. I’ll ask questions, you translate into Spanish, he answers, and you translate into English. Got it?”

  “Totally,” said Lucy.

  Vareta lived on Via Verde, a couple of blocks west of Buena Vista Avenue. Via Verde is one block long, with single-family dwellings built in the 50s. Zoning laws must have been lax in those days, as the houses were barely eight feet apart. They were separated from the roadway by a weedy, turf-filled strip two feet wide, a sidewalk cracked and buckled with age, and tiny, unkempt front yards. Much of the grass had suffered neglect, as had the sparse trees on the block, half of which were dead. A few cars—none less than 10 years old—were parked alongside the curb and in driveways, and more than one yard had jalopies up on blocks in various states of disassembly.

  “This is more like Via Parda than Via Verde,” remarked Lucy. “More brown than green.”

  I found the address in faded paint on the curb. The house that it belonged to was typical of the neighborhood, with a filthy, streaked, white clapboard exterior and a roof of warped wood shingles. We parked, got out of the car, and walked up to the door, stepping around various children’s toys. I knocked.

  Señor Vareta answered almost immediately. The TV behind him blared a Spanish language station. He didn’t know us from the Virgin Mary, but he produced a smile, showing tobacco-stained crooked teeth with numerous gaps. His smile grew broader as he cocked an eye at Lucy. I knew he was married with children, but his kids were probably in school and his wife at work. I really didn’t want the kind of trouble his leer suggested.

  I said to Lucy, “Please tell him we’re from the Jamison detective agency and we want to ask him some questions about the accident.”

  Lucy translated into Spanish.

  The only word I recognized was my own name.

  He motioned us in. I put my paranoia aside and stepped in, with Lucy just behind me. I turned to Lucy. “Would you explain that you’re going to ask him some questions for me?” Then I added, speaking rapidly and running my words together, “Blinktwiceifyou’renervous.”

  Her eyes opened a little wider. She stepped forward, turned her gaze on Vareta, and began to speak in Spanish.

  He spoke back, his beery breath permeating the smoky room.

  After a moment she turned to me and said, “I explained what you wanted, which he seemed to know. I hinted that you were working with the police. That should keep him in line.”

  I told Lucy what to say. She asked, he answered, she translated, I wrote. The upshot was that he’d seen the brothers switch places. “Ask him if he’s willing to testify in court.” Some Spanish followed.

  “He wants to know what we’d pay him.”

 
“Tell him in America we never pay witnesses.”

  “He says in Chile they always do.”

  “This isn’t Chile,” I said between clenched teeth. “Tell him that he can be required to testify in court. He can be subpoenaed.”

  “I don’t know the Spanish word for subpoena,” said Lucy. “Oh well, I’ll fake it.” She spoke more Spanish.

  Vareta looked unhappy but he shrugged and said something.

  Lucy said, “He doesn’t want trouble with the law. He’ll come to the court and tell the judge what he saw.”

  “That’s great.” I could pass this on to the insurance company. “Tell him that’s all for now—someone will contact him later.”

  We got back in the car. “Gracias for helping me out with this.”

  “De nada,” said Lucy. “I think it’ll work out. I made it clear this was important business.”

  I got back on the 101 heading for Santa Barbara and SB General, the city’s main hospital. We had to pass the old county hospital where they keep an overflow morgue, but I was pretty sure Judy’s body would be at the morgue in General’s pathology department.

  “Let’s see, what were we talking about?” I asked Lucy.

  “You were suggesting that Judy might’ve been murdered for her inheritance,” said Lucy.

  “Hold on. I’m not suggesting Judy was murdered at all. I don’t know if she was murdered. I’m looking for a motive for murder, that’s all.”

  Lucy was unmoved. “If her half-brother’s in Houston he couldn’t do anything to her, so what’s the point?”

  “He could hire someone, but we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. Before I devote any more brainpower to this problem, I want an autopsy report.” We proceeded in silence.

  I parked in the visitors’ lot of the hospital. Within minutes we were stepping out of an elevator into the bowels of SB General where the Pathology Department resided. The receptionist greeted me with a smile of recognition. She’s a gorgeous woman of African descent whose friendship I won several years back when I found out where her estranged husband had secreted his winnings from a lottery ticket. It wasn’t one of those Power Ball monster payoffs, but my investigation netted Lisa about a quarter of a million dollars, after which she got her divorce. Lisa grew up in North Carolina, which meant nothing to me at the time, but a year later I attended law school and made my home in the state, so we had this additional bond. She’d been helpful on several occasions when matters macabre brought me to the morgue.