The Evil That Men Do

by Robert D. Rodman

  “I’d be happy to take care of that for you, Dr. Briggs. Thanks again, very much.”

  “Good luck, Dagny.”

  I forewent jogging without a pang of remorse. I’d had enough exercise the previous night to last a month. I was too sore to even think about running. Besides, I was ravenous. All I could think about were Egg McMuffins, hash browns, and coffee. I loaded up at McDonalds and brought the food with me to the office, devouring well-oiled hunks of potato on the way. I was still wary when out, but the total absence of anything sinister since I started taking precautions had blunted my vigilance.

  I postponed eating the rest of the food until I’d brewed a pot, thus affording myself the supreme pleasure of washing down mouthfuls with fresh coffee. Not one of the new phone messages was from Charles, or about Lucy, so I left them for John to deal with when he got back.

  I busied myself updating my computer file on the case, using code words and phrases to describe the previous night’s quasi-legal activities. At the same time, I was preparing to meet Professor Akrich. Using the stolen microfilm, I would try to bait him into an indiscreet remark.

  It was a near certainty that he had murdered Starry Night. He’d have rendered her unconscious using the mixture that Dr. Briggs had described, and then most likely have suffocated her with a pillow. There’d be no evidence of a struggle. The possibility that Starry took Nandrolex and truly died of natural causes was too remote for consideration. Since Akrich had been living in her house when she died, a different murderer was impossible without Akrich’s complicity. My gut argued that he had to be involved in the other murders, perhaps through accomplices. He could probably tell me where Lucy was, dead or alive.

  A little after ten o’clock, I called the university and asked for his secretary. He was in a faculty meeting from 10:00 to 12:00. “He goes to the Faculty Club for lunch at noon,” she explained, “but he usually drops back by his office to check messages. I’ll tell him you called, Miss…?”

  “Maas. I’m a cousin of his wife. Sylvia said I might catch him for lunch, but I’d like to surprise him, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “No problem at all. Mum’s the word. Do you know where to come? You can waylay him right at noon.”

  Her wording was apropos. “Third floor of Pearson Hall. I’ve been before. Thanks very much. Remember, it’s a surprise,” I said in my cutest voice. She promised again.

  I had some extra time but I didn’t want to work on anything but this case. I was still feeling a bit smug from my raid on Akrich’s office. Why not his home? Somewhere was evidence that would tie him to these crimes. He was busy on campus for a few hours, and I knew Mrs. Akrich worked. Did they have children at home? I doubted it, at their age. I was becoming a serial felon. First a B&E, then grave-robbing, and now another B&E, all in a 24-hour period—a day in the life of a P.I., not! Delivering subpoenas was looking better each moment.

  The phone book listed Julius Akrich on Houston Road. I recognized the street. It’s off Orchard Drive, in an area of expensive homes on the bluffs overlooking the Pacific, convenient to UCIV. He couldn’t live there on a professor’s salary, but the Maases probably had money. It’s not a great neighborhood in which to break and enter. With the rich, there’s always somebody showing up to clean the house, keep the grounds, and wash the windows, not to mention those pesky alarm systems. But I had my methods. I was confident that I could gain access without creating a disturbance. What was that saying? “Man plans, God laughs.”

  I called the Akrich’s telephone number before I left. A machine answered. So far so good. Twenty minutes later I was parking in an inconspicuous place on Orchard. The Akrich estate is at the end of the west cul-de-sac of Houston Road. The house itself stands deep in a wooded lot of several acres, presumably situated for a favorable view of the ocean.

  I had stopped at home and changed into a faux uniform of blue denim trousers, a blue work shirt, and a blue baseball cap. My plan was to walk boldly up to the front door, ring the bell, and knock a few times. Then I’d walk noisily around the house and repeat the process at other doors, making sure the property was unoccupied. If anyone was there, I’d pull a lie out of my hatful of prefabricated fibs. I locked my handbag in the car in favor of an official looking clipboard.

  I was halfway to the front door when a man stepped out of the bushes and pointed a .45 caliber automatic at my belly button. “You can die now, or you can die later.” My hands rose reflexively. The clipboard clattered as it struck the ground.

  Chapter 23

  Part of my training to be a medic in the Army was to study the effects of gunshot wounds. With a .45 the point of entry is small, no larger than your index finger. The exit wound, if the bullet gets that far, is the size of a man’s fist, a tangle of blood and guts to make a surgeon weep. The War Department first issued the gun to U.S. soldiers fighting in the jungle in the late 19th century. Machete-wielding fanatics, who neglected to fall down when shot, motivated its deployment. They would hurl themselves fearlessly into the teeth of our boys’ gunfire. The high velocity rifle bullets passed through their naked torsos and on they came, surviving long enough to bring about a dismaying number of amputees. The heavy, slow .45 slug was designed to remain inside the target body, thereby imparting all of its momentum. It could stop a charging man in his tracks. No degree of fanaticism can defy the laws of physics.

  A small close target—me, in this case—is insufficient to stop the slug completely. As it slows in the body, it bulldozes a mass of vessels, organs, sinew, and bone to the surface. I was hoping to avoid a jumbling of my insides.

  He was a well-muscled man just under six feet tall, medium complexion, wavy brown hair cut short. He wore a Gold’s Gym T-shirt, off-brand jeans, and a pair of New Balance cross-trainers. I didn’t think he was a professional thug. Nobody uses those old forty-fives any more. They are inaccurate at ranges greater than ten feet, and they tend to jam. The National Rifle Association got a hold of thousands of surplus models back in the sixties. It sold them cheaply as incentives to join the organization long before the advent of gun control laws.

  “Won’t the professor be surprised to find another little chickadee prying into his business? Maybe now he’ll get on with what needs to be done.”

  “Hey, I’m just here selling magazine subscriptions. If they don’t want any, I’ll leave. The hardware isn’t necessary.”

  “Uh-huh. P.I. work a little slow so you’re moonlighting, right?” He motioned me to precede him. There was a narrow gravel pathway winding away from the main house to the right. Tall bushes on either side guaranteed privacy. Along this he urged me with sharp nudges, the gun now pointed at the small of my back. Thankfully, these surplus automatics are heavy-triggered even when cocked. I didn’t think I’d be shot by accident.

  At the end of the path in a small clearing was a tiny cottage. It had a pitched roof of red Spanish tile and light brown shingled siding. The path led to the front door, on either side of which were wood frame windows with their shades pulled tightly closed. Beneath each window was a shelf for potted plants or flower boxes. Several clay pots stood on each, their contents dead or dying.

  “Down,” he commanded, cocking the hammer of the .45 with an ominous click, and at the same time pressing on my right shoulder with the gun’s barrel. This is the moment that James Bond would have disarmed him with some slick martial art. I’d had my army MP training and I knew some tricks, but trust me, it doesn’t work with a cocked pistol aimed at you. I thought of asking him to shoot me in the head. I hate having large holes in my body. A large hole in my head would be just deserts for blundering into this mess.

  I sank wordlessly to my knees under the pressure of the gun barrel. He pushed me down flat on my stomach and put his foot on my back. I closed my eyes and scrunched my face. He fumbled around in his pockets. The sound of keys; the sound of a key in a lock; a dead bolt thrown open; another key in lock sound; a knob turning. The door to the cottage creaked open.

  He rem
oved his foot. “Get in!”

  I scrambled to my feet, not all that sure I was happy to be alive. I’d rather be murdered than raped and murdered, and there was something sexually domineering about that foot.

  Inside, the cottage was dark. With my sun-shrunken pupils I could barely discern the outline of the walls. The measly light that seeped around the shaded windows was the only illumination. There were no other windows in the cottage, which appeared to consist of one large room. I suddenly felt a sensation. There was somebody in the room. I didn’t hear or see anything, consciously. My life-form detector had gone off.

  He switched on a light. I was in an L-shaped room. To my right, separated by freestanding shelves, was a kitchen. To my left was a living area with a shabby sofa and two decrepit stuffed chairs. In the back, divided from the living area by cords of bamboo beads—like the ones that separate the restrooms from the dining room in cheap Chinese restaurants—was, apparently, a bedroom. I tried to peer through the curtains, but it was unnecessary.

  “Back there,” he urged me with a nudge. My fear of rape yielded to a worse fear: gang rape. There was someone waiting in the bedroom. I hesitated and the nudge became a shove.

  “Go!”

  I pushed through the bamboo curtain and gasped when I saw the bed. Tied securely to the bedstead, gagged, and blindfolded, was Lucy Navarro.

  “Vagmy,” she said through the gag, and tears dribbled out from under her blindfold. Somehow, she recognized me. She must have been here for days. Restrained and blinded, the other senses become keener. She may have recognized my footfall, or even my smell. My outrage surmounted my fear. I turned on my antagonist with spumes of withering curses, holding my ground as he moved toward me, the cocked .45 aimed at a point over my left shoulder. He swung the weapon hard against my left temple.

  A sheet of pain engulfed me. I went down, stunned and helpless in agony. I wasn’t knocked out; I just wished I was. He opened a door beside the bed and dragged me by the collar into the bathroom. He cocked his fist to strike me again, but thought better of it. For whatever reason, he was apparently under orders not to kill.

  The door closed, secured by three dead bolts. The pain in my throbbing head resonated throughout my body, welling up and receding with each heartbeat. I was going to be sick. I barely got my head in the toilet, whose malodor hastened the emptying of my stomach. That somehow made me feel better. I began pain control procedures. Shallow breathing, slow movements, positive thoughts. Yes! I was alive! Lucy was alive! The latter thought thrilled and energized me.

  Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. The pulsing of pain behind my eyes subsided and my head began to clear. I was taking stock. The bathroom was windowless. The pittance of light from the crack under the door was barely enough for me to pick out the commode, sink and bathtub. The floor I was lying on was everywhere damp, and in some places slimy. It stank of stale piss and vomit.

  I took a deep breath through my mouth and got to my knees. Minor head rush. Then to my feet. Major head rush. I put two hands on the sink and lowered my head. I turned the handle, not expecting anything. Out came a stream of cold water. I rinsed my hands. When they felt clean, I splashed the cool water on my face and head. I cupped water to my mouth for a long drink. Tenderly, I explored the side of my head. The goose egg was there, but I’ve had worse. I was feeling sufficiently better to begin worrying all over again.

  He probably didn’t have any rope handy, I thought, and had likely gone off to fetch some. I listened at the door. Lucy’s breathing was labored. She’d been crying, which meant a stuffed nose and breathing past the gag in her mouth. There was no other sound. I had to risk contact. I needed to know if Mr. Gold’s Gym was there.

  “Lucy,” I called, “I’m all right. If you hear me, make a sound.” A muffled vocalization came through the door. I listened for a reaction from a third party. None. “If he’s there, remain silent, otherwise say something.” Another vocalization. Maybe he forced her, but I had to assume he wasn’t there. “Are you okay?” Her response sounded more like uh-huh than unh-unh, but it was a stupid question.

  Just for form I tried my shoulder against the door. Solid. The walls, too, were impenetrable. In modern houses a person can walk—or at least force their way—through the walls. Joists are often sixteen inches apart and the gypsum dry wall of today’s construction offers little resistance to determined kicks. This cottage was probably built in the 1950s, perhaps for a groundskeeper or some other servant type. The lath and plaster construction of the time was as substantial as that decade’s Packard automobile.

  With not entirely heartfelt bravado I called out, “Don’t worry, Lucy, I’m gonna get us outta this place.” Then as an afterthought, “But first I need to pee.”

  There was a muffled giggle.

  The story goes that Newton conceived the theory of gravity when an apple conked him on the head. My guess is he was sitting on the pot (literally) when it happened, inspired by a plop rather than a conk, but that wouldn’t go over well in schoolbooks. I have friends who swear they do their best thinking in the bathroom. An inspiration came to me as the last few drops made their tiny splash.

  I stooped and reached behind the bowl of the toilet. My hand found the water valve but I wasn’t strong enough to twist it closed. Back on my hands and knees I went. I would have to forego squeamishness to carry out my plan. With two hands on the valve I just managed half of a clockwise twist, then another and another until it shut. I flushed the toilet, holding the handle down until the water tank emptied completely. I removed the top of the tank. The darkness mercifully concealed what was growing inside of it. I moved around to one side of the tank, took hold, and began to rock it back and forth.

  At the end of each swing the bolts and drainpipe holding the unit in place groaned. I put every thing I had into it. I threw my weight forward for to, then stooped and leaned back for fro. At about the eighth repetition the entire unit busted loose with a tremendous crack. It was during a fro cycle and I went down hard on my butt. Dribbles of slimy tank water splattered over my entire front.

  In the silence that followed, I waited for the dead bolts to be thrown. Nothing. I shouted to Lucy, “I’m okay. I’m breaking the fuck out of here.” She squealed back in what I took to be delight.

  Some further illumination came up through the hole from under the house. As I had hoped, the continual dampness had rotted the floor and supports. I started kicking and stomping furiously, breaking away hunks of plywood until I had cleared out an area between two floor joists. They were fourteen inches apart. Every calorie I had ever denied myself now paid its dividend. I squeezed between the joists into a mucky, yucky, this-is-worse-than-eating-worms crawl space.

  I had learned to belly crawl in boot camp, often through mud, or thick undergrowth not guaranteed to be snake- or spider-free. Nobody liked it, but we all learned to control our instincts of repulsion. I began to crawl in the direction of the most light, hoping for an egress. Pipes and electrical wire were visible in the murkiness, so there had to be a way for plumbers and electricians to get down here.

  The light crystallized into a square shape that came from a subsurface access. A mesh of corroded metal separated the crawl space from a cement-lined entrance pit. I bellied up to it, spun around, and kicked it out. I scrambled through to freedom. Muck covered me. Some had gotten in my pants as I crawled. As I rose to my knees, I could feel it oozing down my belly and the insides of my thighs.

  I was on the side of the cottage next to the bedroom. The main house was barely visible through some trees. In the opposite direction, toward the rear of the cottage, a wooded area and freedom beckoned to me. I considered immediate flight. I rationalized that once I escaped they wouldn’t dare harm Lucy. But I wasn’t convinced that I was dealing with rational people. The penalty for kidnapping is only slightly milder than the penalty for murder, and murder eliminates a witness. I had to free Lucy.

  Though it felt like hours, I’d escaped in less than 20 minutes. I had n
o idea when Gold’s Gym would return. I peeked around the corner, scanning quickly in all directions, holding my breath and listening intently. A few woodsy sounds, some auto traffic, an airplane overhead. No footsteps. No sign of him. I moved soundlessly to the front of the cottage, thinking to force a window. A little voice said, “Try the door.” I love these little voices. The sucker was unlocked. I opened it slowly, planning to make a dash for it if he was there.

  He wasn’t. I moved quickly to Lucy, removing her gag.

  Had I expected her to say something maudlin like “Oh, Dagny, thank God you’ve come,” I’d have been disappointed. The first words out of her mouth were, “There’re knives in the kitchen.” I didn’t delay. I jerked open drawer after drawer until I found a serrated steak knife. She was bound hand and foot to the bed frame with nylon rope strong enough to tow a car. It took a long minute to saw through and remove all her fetters. I didn’t want her encumbered as we fled.

  “Can you walk?” I asked, cutting through the last strands.

  She stood up shakily, balancing herself on a bedpost. She rasped, “Let’s fuckin’ book.” She stumbled through the bamboo curtain. I supported her by the elbow until we reached the door. She shrugged herself free.

  I said, “Okay, then. We’ll turn left out the door, then left again to the rear and into the woods—no hesitation. Are you game?”

  Lucy took some deep breaths, bit her lip, and nodded her assent.

  I opened the door a smidge. Still no sign of him. “On three,” I whispered. “You go first. One, two, three.” We sidled out the door. I gave Lucy a gentle push of encouragement, then pulled the door closed silently behind me and followed. Within seconds we were high-hoofing through the woods as noiselessly as we could.

  Our shadows were in front of us, and as it was nearly noon, it meant we were heading north. I turned to put the shadows on our left. East, in a half a mile, was the road. I was out of breath, as much from anxiety as from running. Lucy was faltering, too. I slowed us to a walk, finger to lips indicating we weren’t out of the metaphorical woods yet.