by Warren Adler
"I can't speculate about her behavior. Only about the possibility. She could, indeed."
"At seventy-seven?"
He shook his head and offered a thin smile.
"Most people have no understanding about the aging process. The body can exercise the venery for a much longer time than young people think." He hesitated a moment and grew reflective. "It's a question of inspiration."
"And, for the male, Viagra."
"Ah yes, Viagra. They say it might work for women as well." He hesitated. "Although I would speculate from a careful analysis of the remains that Mrs. Shipley had no such need. I would say her organs were in very good shape and capable of excellent function in that regard."
"But you did say rape."
"I said it was a logical conclusion. I also said there was evidence of semen. A DNA match would confirm the perpetrator."
"If found."
He nodded and shrugged. His work had made him a skeptic and sometimes cynic. From his perspective, poking around in dead humans, many of them murder victims, he had reason for cynicism. He was in his late fifties and had lost his wife of thirty years, the love of his life. He had lived alone in the house they had shared. As far as she had observed, he hadn't the remotest interest in involving himself in another relationship.
"Logical conclusion." Fiona murmured. "It has an air of speculation."
"There were, indeed, signs of forced entry, signs of trauma in the vaginal tissues. I'll skip all the technical jargon, Fi. She was not a willing participant. Ergo rape."
Dr. Benson leaned back again and made his trademark cathedral, studying Fiona through the finger slats.
"But you could have got that in one telephone call, Fi. There's more isn't there?"
"Don't be so smug, Doctor. I've dropped clues like flower petals at a wedding. I called you at seven a.m. Brought in breakfast for us both, a clear tip-off that I was here for a heart to heart. And here we are talking about sex."
"Rape isn't about sex, Fi," Dr. Benson said.
"I know. I was referring to my own situation. And it is, at least partially, about the sex."
"I've noted the definite article, Fi."
"That part deserves the definite article, Doctor. It's the less physical parts of the relationship that give pause. She sighed and shook her head. "It's Hal Perry, my new friend. I told you about him."
"With great enthusiasm, I recollect."
"You've heard all this before, I know."
"But this is different, right?"
"Don't trivialize, Doctor. I'll grant you that all this comes from the same root ... the need to pair. Just because you were lucky once, doesn't mean this is the fate of all."
Both knew that this was gentle sparring. His advice was always on target, including the hardest part, a subtle suggestion that she might be wise to ponder the long term effects of this or that proposed union. He never pressed the point, only mused aloud modestly intoning that "he was not as good with the living as he was with the dead".
"As you know, he's a former General and he is mounting a massive offensive to gain my hand in marriage." She waved her hand around his office. "He wants to take me away from all this. All this blood and violence, chicanery, hypocrisy, deception. In that role, I would be the chatelaine of his various houses, the powerful sucked up to corporate wife."
"Sounds intriguing," he said, unmaking his cathedral and sitting up. He buttered his bagel, took a bite and sipped his coffee.
"It is."
"But is it love?"
"I think so."
"If it's love Fiona, you don't think. It's like religion, an irrational certainty."
"Maybe I'm too cerebral. Or do I prize my independence beyond reason?"
"Now there's an obvious rationalization, Fiona. In love, you give up your independence willingly, gladly."
"You're a pathetic romantic, Dr. Benson. Somehow it seems incongruous with pathology."
"Not at all. It reveals the same certainties. Bones and tissue can't lie."
"Are you suggesting that I'm lying to myself?"
"Not you Fiona. I'd say you weren't, if you'll pardon the expression from a medical examiner, dead certain."
A protest, Fiona knew, would be irrelevant. He knew she had come to him for honesty and wisdom. Dead certain, she mused. Yes, she wanted Hal Perry, wanted to be in his arms, wanted him nearby, wanted to share his life. But she also wanted him to share hers, this life, which put her between, as they say, a rock and a hard place.
"Have you considered split shifts?"
"I have. He hasn't. Oddly enough, it's not the work I do. Unlike others who caught my affection, he has bought my explanation. He truly understands the why of it. That's not the relevant issue. If I were a cabinet minister, a rocket scientist, a lavatory attendant or even a pathologist. It wouldn't matter. He wants me ... there. With him."
"Can you blame him?"
"That would be the last thing I could do," Fiona sighed.
"He's right, you know," Dr. Benton said. "In my view, marriage requires proximity."
"Why can't you read tea leaves instead of ... dead people?"
She popped the last chunk of her bagel into her mouth and washed it down with coffee.
"I wish I could, Fi."
At that moment, the telephone rang. He picked it up.
"Yes, Gail. It's confirmed. She's right here."
He handed her the phone.
"Weird call, Fi." So she was back on Fi, which was encouraging. "Roy, the faithful retainer. Says he's caught the killer."
"What?"
"I'm quoting verbatim. He has him locked in Mrs. Shipley's wine cellar."
CHAPTER 6
Roy was waiting for them in the front of Mrs. Shipley's house.
"It was the cross," he said, as he led them through the corridor to a doorway under the staircase that hid the entrance to the back stairs. After descending the stairs, they walked through a dank basement corridor lit at intervals by a series of bare bulbs.
"I've been cruising the neighborhood," Roy continued. "I had this idea in my head that, whoever he was, he would be wearing that cross as a kind of trophy of conquest."
"How can you be so sure he's the one?" Fiona asked.
"It took him awhile," Roy said looking back at them archly, his lips pursed in a tight cryptic smile. "But eventually he saw the value of a full confession."
"When did you find him?" Fiona asked.
"Late last night. There he was hanging out on 14th Street, just five blocks from here, wearing that cross, doing his pimp walk, proud as a bantam rooster."
"How did you get him to come with you?" Gail asked.
"Believe me, he had no choice."
"Why didn't you contact us last night?" Fiona asked.
"I wanted to be sure he was the one."
"And now you're sure?"
"Beyond a reasonable doubt."
"Where's Gloria?" Gail asked.
"There."
He pointed to Gloria who stood in front of a wooden door, apparently the entrance to the wine cellar. Her hands were folded into the opposite arms of the cardigan she was wearing. She looked somber and troubled.
"Gloria's a witness, right Gloria?" Roy muttered.
She nodded. Fiona and Gail exchanged troubled glances.
"Why in there?" Fiona asked.
"No way out."
Roy reached for a heavy metal ring on which dangled a key. Fiona noted that although the knuckles of his hands were swollen and arthritic and part of the little finger of his left hand was missing at its tip, the hands appeared sure and strong and worked smoothly. He inserted the key in the lock, turned it and pushed open the heavy door. He flicked a wall switch. The room exploded in harsh light.
There were a few dusty bottles scattered through the shelves, but it was obvious that the room had not been used for years. In a corner of the room, his face swollen, looking bug-eyed and frightened was a naked black teenage boy. His body was a mass of cuts and bruises, his genitals purple an
d battered. He was seated on a wooden chair, his ankles tied together with wire. His arms reached behind the back of the chair where they were also tied together.
His clothes were strewn in a pile on the floor and on the pile was what Fiona assumed was Mrs. Shipley's gold cross.
"This is crazy, Roy," Fiona snapped. "Untie that boy immediately."
"That's no boy. That's the monster who did this to Madame."
Gloria had come in behind them.
"I recorded his confession," she said, removing a tape recorder from the pocket of her cardigan.
"You were a part of this, Gloria?" Fiona asked.
She bowed her head and nodded.
"I don't know what you were thinking," Fiona said, turning to Roy. "You can't do this."
"You had no right," Gail said, her anger rising.
"Don't talk to me about rights," Roy said. He looked at the boy. "Talk to this little bastard about rights, the right of Madame to be alive today."
"This is nothing more than a lynching without trial," Gail pressed.
"Lynching? He's still alive isn't he? I would have killed him without a pang of conscience."
"I'm surprised you didn't," Fiona said.
"Why take him out of his misery so soon. I'd rather see him suffer." He shot a glance at Gloria, who turned away.
"He should be charged with attempted murder," Gail persisted.
"We'll get to that Gail," Fiona rebuked.
"That's for sure," Gail said, pouting.
"You killed her, right Martine?" Roy's voice boomed. He turned toward Fiona. "His name is Martine Flowers. "Is that your name boy, Martine? Flowers?"
The boy nodded twice.
"Raped her?"
The boy shrugged.
"You know what I mean. Tell them."
"I.... yeah.."
This time the boy nodded.
Fiona shook her head in despair. It was obvious that the boy was too terrified to offer a denial. He had probably been pounded on for hours.... which made the confession suspect.
"Better get him untied," Fiona said, as he and Gail untied his ankles and hands. After he was untied, the boy tried to rise, faltered, then fell on his knees on the stone floor. He was small and skinny. Fiona knelt beside him, then turned to Gloria.
"Your sweater please," she barked. Frightened, Gloria quickly removed her sweater and Fiona gently wrapped it around the boy's shoulders. Joined by Gail, they lifted him back into the chair.
"You could have killed him," Fiona said after the boy was seated.
"Considering your reaction, I wish I had," Roy said. "He did it. He confessed. We have it on tape."
"How old are you, Martine?" Gail asked gently.
"Fo'teen," the boy whispered. As he spoke, blood came out of his mouth and rolled down his chin.
"You've got a problem, Roy," Fiona said cutting him an angry glance.
"He got in the door in the rear of the house, came up the back stairs, got into Madame's room killed her and raped her. Isn't that right, Martine?"
The boy looked into Roy's face. He was still terrified.
"Tell them, you little son-of-a-bitch," Roy shouted.
The boy raised his hand as if to protect himself from further blows.
"Don't tell him anything Martine," Gail cried.
The boy, still terrified, said nothing.
"Which side are you on?" Roy protested, then he turned to Fiona. "It doesn't matter. We have it on tape."
"It may not be admissible," Fiona said. "Could be thrown out of court. Besides, he's a juvenile."
"That didn't make a difference to Madame," Roy said.
"You've got a point," Fiona sighed.
Fiona's eyes were drawn to the boy's battered genitals. They looked small, shriveled, and incapable of performing an act of forced rape. Gail called for an ambulance on her cell. As she talked, Fiona patted the boy's shoulder.
"There's help coming, Martine. They'll fix you up. You'll be fine."
"Are you people mad?" Roy shouted, saliva gathering on the corner of his lips. "He's confessed. We have it on tape. He's guilty. What's wrong with you people? He came in here and stabbed Madame to death. Then he raped her."
His sequence was surprisingly logical, although, as Dr. Benson had told her: he couldn't be certain.
"You've scared him to death. He'd say anything just to get you to stop." Gail said.
"I don't believe this." He looked toward Gloria. "Are we the perpetrators now? What has happened to this country?"
Gloria looked confused and turned her eyes away.
"Why did he say he did it?" Gail asked, her eyes narrowing as if it were a trap question.
"Why?" Roy shouted. "Tell them Martine. Go on tell them!"
They all looked at the captured boy.
"Why?" Roy shouted again. "Tell them, Martine. Go on tell them!"
"You don't have to Martine," Gail snapped.
Roy lunged suddenly, grabbing the boy around the neck. Fiona and Gail grappled with him, pinning his hands behind his back. He was surprisingly strong for a man his age. Gail cuffed him and he calmed down.
"I wish Madame could see this," Roy croaked. Fiona turned to Gloria.
"We had no choice, Gloria," Fiona said.
"Tell them about the five hundred dollars, Martine" Roy hissed, shooting hateful glances at Gail and Fiona. "Killed her and raped her for five hundred dollars."
"Is that true, Martine?" Fiona asked.
"It's coercion, Fi," Gail muttered.
"Did he, Martine?"
"Tell them you murdering bastard," Roy screamed.
"Man come in a car," the boy said as if he had forgotten that Roy had been cuffed.
Fiona looked at Gail who turned away in anger.
"This is wrong," she whispered under her breath.
"Just pulled up and said here's five hundred dollars. Go kill that old lady?" Fiona asked, incredulous.
"He come by an' asts me if I wanna make five hundert dollahs."
"And you said what do I have to do to get that money?"
The boy nodded.
"He say: You know that ole lady lives in the big house down there."
"Did he say her name?"
"Ole lady lives in that big house all he said."
"And you know who he meant?"
"Yeah. Ev'ybody knows who she be."
"When was this when the man came? Night. Day. You remember what day it was?" Fiona asked.
The boy shrugged.
"Night," he said.
"What day. You remember what day?"
The boy looked up listlessly and shook his head.
"Keep this up, he'll soon be denying everything," Roy said.
The boy cut a frightened glance at Roy.
"You can see he's been terrorized," Gail said. "You really have to discount what he tell us."
"What else Martine?" Roy shouted. He turned toward Gail and pursed his lips in anger. "You people..."
"Well we now know where this is coming from?" Gail smirked.
"Can you believe this, Gloria?" Roy sneered. "People like her are leading us straight to hell."
"Roy please," Fiona admonished, turning again to the boy.
"Did he say when ... when you were supposed to.... "?
"Tell them Martine," Roy pressed.
Fiona, in a burst of anger, turned to face him.
"Can't you just shut your goddamned mouth, Roy?"
"I don't feel comfortable with this, Fi," Gail interjected.
"We've got it on tape anyway," Roy said flushing.
Fiona turned again to the boy, who seemed confused by what was happening around him. Fiona shot both Gail and Roy another look of rebuke.
"Now tell me what the man said Martine?" Fiona asked, her teeth clenched with impatience and anger.
"I tole you. He give me fi' hundert dollahs and then he say do that ole lady tomorrow night or he..."
"He said tomorrow night?"
"Or he...."
The b
oy lowered his head, his voice barely audible.
"Did he give you a time?"
"Bout then," the boy said.
"What time was it?"
"He looked at his watch and say ten."
"Pretty specific," Fiona said.
The boy shrugged.
"Or he what?" Fiona prodded. "...if you didn't do it when he said."
"Or he come and do me."
"And what did you say to that Martine?"
"I say: Cool."
"You wanted that five hundred dollars. Right Martine?" Roy said with a sinister chuckle.
"Anyone can see he's not responsible." Gail said.
Fiona ignored her remark, looked at the boy and shook her head.
"That it? Just like that?" Fiona asked, puzzled.
"The bastard's proud of it," Roy mumbled.
"He's scared out of his mind," Gail interjected.
"He has no mind," Roy shot back.
"This man..." Fiona said. "You said you'd do it then he gave you the five hundred dollars on the spot?"
The boy nodded.
"Told me to go on and do her tomorrow night at about ten o'clock." Fiona repeated the assertion as if to underline it.
The boy nodded again. He did not look up.
"Or he would do you?"
"And he obeyed," Roy interjected. "Did even more than he was supposed to. Didn't you, you little turd?"
"Were you afraid that he would come back and, as you say, do you?"
Only then did the boy raise his head, his expression defiant. Fiona detected not the slightest sign of contrition or regret.
"I weren't," he said with unmistakable boyish pride. "Cause I knew I wuz gonna do it. You say you do somethin'. You do it. I weren't gonna lose no respeck."
It struck Fiona suddenly that the boy had absolutely no sense of the enormity of the crime. She exchanged glances with Gail, who looked back at her with obvious outrage and shook her head. There was a kind of resignation in the gesture as if she were surrendering under protest. Fiona felt a disturbing sense of racial divide. Despite her discomfort, she knew she had to ask the logical next question.
"Was he a white man or a black man?"
"I think he be a brother."
"Do you remember the kind of car it was?"
"Dark maybe."
"Dark? What does that mean? Blue, black, brown? What?"
The boy shrugged.
"Jes dark. Black maybe. Big."
"And the man? Is there anything you remember about him."?
