by Cynthia Lott
“McGuire, tell Officer Conway to keep the reporters and neighbors back. Jesus, we’ve only been here for a few hours. This is ridiculous. Have Conway do the press report…he’ll know what to say.” Roy walked towards the foyer and looked through one of the small glass panes outlining the cherry front door.
Neighbors, still in their housecoats, spilled out into the street. They stood staring at the ambulance, police cars and yellow tape, trying to decipher the chain of events. As they had already seen the coroner van leave the premises I’m sure the consensus among the crowd was that something grim had definitely taken place. McGuire nodded over to Roy and opening the front door, they escorted the family to the two police cars, leaving the bloody mess of the house behind.
As Roy drove our car back to the station, I felt the impending pains of an oncoming tension headache and I needed to swallow some Tylenol – forget that this morning ever happened.
“I want to turn on the television and see her again, Roy. She was such a pretty girl…so talented. Honestly, though, I usually turned the channel every time she came on. I feel guilty that I never really listened to her play. God, I’m a jerk.”
“Don’t feel bad. These things happen. We form some kind of attachment to a stranger…someone we grow used to recognizing in the media and then they’re gone. It’s like a reliable vision out of the corner of our eye and then they disappear…poof. And in this case, for no damn good reason.”
“Yeah, it’s seriously fucking disturbing. I love that we’re entering 1978 with the murder…sorry, mutilation of a child. That’s just great, Roy.”
“I know. It’s a total mess. My mind is racing with this right now.”
I stared out the window and watched the passing scenery of gorgeous stately homes eventually give way to office buildings with bus stops and gas stations lining the streets. Roy reached over and caressed my hand. He always had a certain way of touching me, and I appreciated this most when I woke in the middle of the night crying for my father with that searing grief only a violent death can cause. Shuddering, I knew that Claire’s parents would experience this sensation soon enough.
* * *
Chapter Two
The Watkins family arrived at the District Six police station amidst a grim winter backdrop. The sky remained overcast and deluged the city with a relentless thunderstorm – nature’s refrain of the family’s bitter tears. Having interviewed numerous witnesses, I was familiar with how a person’s grief can initiate a monsoon of emotions.
Inside the station’s lobby, the ugliness of peeling grey paint reflected the age of the old building located on North Rampart Street. Built in the 1950s, it was in the midst of being re-fitted to allow for a new computerized communications system. Soon, there would be fresh paint, new light fixtures, and modern office furniture. But, in the beginning of 1978, the rooms looked disheveled and wanting of a makeover.
As I sat down with my first witness, Claire’s older sister, eighteen-year old Karen Watkins, I sensed her discomfort.
Apparently she’s never been in a police station before. I’m sure she wants to be anywhere but here – sitting across from an older woman staring at her.
In the interview room Karen rubbed the inside of her left palm and eased back against the cushioned chair. She avoided my gaze but instead, looked around the room as if she were trying to find a point of reference, something she could place her focus on. She wore a light grey sweatshirt that hung off of her right shoulder, black sweatpants with green vines running alongside the legs, and short black boots that hugged her small feet.
“I’m sure any police station you’ve seen on TV is far better looking than this one.” I solicited a quiet laugh from the young girl, a moment that ended as quickly as it began as if Karen felt guilty that she should find anything humorous under the circumstance. I paused and let her drink from a cup of hot chocolate.
“Karen, my name is Detective Brenda Shapira. I know this is difficult for you. I’m sorry this happened to your sister. I knew of Claire. She was a very talented pianist. You must’ve been proud of her.”
Seeming as if she hadn’t heard, Karen looked past me and focused on the wall behind me. Without turning around, I could tell that her green eyes were following the pattern of yellowish watermarks that ran from floor to ceiling. There were exactly four of them and as Karen’s eyes followed their stains, I grew embarrassed that they were there at all.
Her gaze then moved towards the ceiling, as she followed several consecutive tiles. I was used to the phasing in and out of witnesses, their minds jumping from one moment to the next, trying to make sense of whatever they thought they saw or knew. After three years at the station, I intimately knew the details of the ceiling and how some of the holes lining the tiles replicated constellations.
You’re not alone. I also follow the cracks in the ceiling. Parts of the old building are good at distracting you.
“Everyone knew of Claire.” She finally focused her gaze on me. Her pouty lips, fair skin, high cheekbones and small nose resembled her sister’s.
“Yes, I’m proud of her. She’s incredible. She was incredible. We assumed he thought so too…that’s what he told us at least.” She licked her lips and looked down at a paper napkin, spinning it around several times and stopping when a hot chocolate stain faced my direction. As she sipped from her cup, she looked at me over the rim.
“Who is he?” I leaned in closer.
“The man in the bird mask. We didn’t know. We just didn’t.”
“What didn’t you know, Karen?”
“That he was there to hurt her. We thought he was a friend of my parents.”
I thought about the four large green feathers we retrieved from the scene that were in my briefcase, tucked inside the plastic evidence bag.
“Karen, I know this is difficult with all you’ve been through today, but I need for you to identify something for me. Would that be all right? There was something we found this morning in the music room.”
“Sure. I’ll try. What is it?”
“These. We found them on a small antique table. Do these look familiar to you? Do you know where they might have come from?” I pulled out the plastic bag and placed it on the table between us.
Karen looked at them, her mouth forming a grimace, eyes widening.
“They’re from his mask. It had different shades of green feathers surrounding the face. You know, like dark ones and then they switched to light…all mixed together. Various shades. It was a dark green half mask…it didn’t cover his whole face. I could still make out his cheekbones and his lips, but a gold beak covered his nose. It was a beautiful mask with colored jewels outlining the eyes. He said it came from family in Venice. These are definitely from his mask. Definitely.” Her hands gestured how the mask would fit over his face.
Had he removed the feathers from his mask and left them on the table? How could they have never asked him to remove his mask?
“Karen, could you do me a favor? Do you mind drawing a sketch of the mask for me?”
“Of course.”
“Was he wearing this mask the whole time he was in your home?”
She paused and looked at me as if I would reprimand her for answering.
“Yes, he was.” She glanced down at the table. “I never thought of asking him to remove it. That might sound completely strange now but it’s true. It just never occurred to me at the time. You have to understand. I…we…felt comfortable with him. I meet a lot of my parents’ friends…strangers who visit our home all the time and I’ve never felt like this before. Never.”
She looked back up, her eyes misty.
“Who let him into your home last night?”
“Carmen. But it was only because she felt the way I did. It didn’t even cross our minds that he didn’t belong there. It should have, I know, but he seemed like an old friend. I know Carmen felt this way, too.”
Noticing that she was repeating herself, I gave Karen a reprieve and guided her into another waiting room
where Roy was busily talking to ten-year old Stephen about the film, Star Wars. Stephen’s exhausted mother leant her head against her husband. He periodically patted her on the back in a masculine attempt at sympathy, fingertips absorbing the tension in her shoulders.
I brought the nanny, Carmen, into the interview room and sat down with her, placing a box of Kleenex between the two of us. The forty-year-old woman’s dark hair stuck to the side of her face, glued down by tears. Wrapped around her thin shoulders was a blue fleece blanket Roy had given her, standard police issue for people in shock. As the rain poured down outside, I could tell that the chill sank deep into her bones.
“Hi, Carmen. I know it can be cold in here so if you need another blanket, do let me know. We have more of them in the other room. Take a moment if you like.”
I let Carmen pause and look down at the table, her face worn and tired. Her floral dress looked like a vase of wilted flowers. She wrapped the blanket tighter around her body, shivering, even though the room was rather warm.
“How can I help you, Detective?” She looked up, a meek expression on her face.
“I know this is a tragic situation and I wish I didn’t have to bother you with any of this, but I need to ask you a few questions if I may. Is that all right?”
“All right.” Carmen didn’t even bother looking at the water stained wall, as her eyes traveled a trail that went directly from me to the table and back again.
“Carmen, when this man was in the Watkins home, can you remember what he looked like or how old he was?”
I offered her a tissue as I beheld the woman’s swollen eyes, her mascara running forth from them like an oil slick. Her makeup looked half done; only one eye had mascara, one cheek had blush. It was as if she attempted to look presentable for the questioning but gave up in a state of despair. Carmen took one of the pink tissues, twisting it around her pinky several times. I wasn’t receiving a response so I thought I would try again with a different question.
“Carmen, is there a reason you let him into the Watkins’ home?”
“No. There was no good reason and I can understand if you suspect me of some sort of foul play – but I would never hurt Claire. Not ever. I would have given my life for her. I would give my life for any of them. I’ve been with this family for fifteen years. I was with her when she was an infant. This isn’t right. They relied on me and I let them down. I don’t know why I trusted this man but it was as if I knew him; like I had known him for years and I felt like it was the right thing to do, to let him see her. How on earth could I have thought that?” Tears flowed down her face. Tearing off small pieces of the tissue, she laid them into a pile, a tiny pink fortress between the two of us.
“Carmen, no one is here to blame you. What happened was not your fault but you did allow him to enter the home and you let him be alone with her. From our perspective, it would seem that you have some personal knowledge of this man. Could he have been someone you know? Past or present?”
“No…no, no and that was the thing. I don’t think I’ve ever met this man in my life, Detective. I’m certain I haven’t. Let me try to explain this in the best way I can. Under normal circumstances, on any given day, I would never let this man into their home…I swear to that. As God is my witness. But he had this charm about him, difficult to describe. And there was his mask. It had a scent to it when he stood close to me. It was a mixture of rosemary and lavender. I remember these smells distinctly. I know them well because I take care of Mrs. Watkins’ garden. Herbs are Anna’s favorite. It’s not like me to let someone…just anyone into their home.” She pushed her damp hair behind her ears.
“Yes, I’m gathering that this was out of your normal character.”
She played with the teabag string that hung on the side of her cup.
“Do you remember what clothes he was wearing?”
“Yes, I do. He wore a white ruffled shirt, a black dress jacket, black pants, and black boots. I remember that well. He was tall, dark hair, dark eyes…young. I would say around twenty. I never thought – well, you know. And he wore a carnival bird mask, a fancy one.” She looked at the Kleenex and held it over her face, breathing heavily. I was expecting her to either vomit or hyperventilate and had a paper bag in my briefcase, suitable for either occasion. I was used to family members starting off fine and within fifteen minutes, losing the ability to breathe. Fortunately for both of us, neither was the case and her breathing returned to normal.
“And you never felt the need to ask him to remove his mask?”
Again, there was the stare, the look of discombobulation.
“No. No, I didn’t. Not at all.” She looked away from me, wringing her hands and placing them back into her lap.
“Did you hear a struggle going on upstairs at any given point during the night?”
“No. Never. We didn’t hear anything because we had the stereo on, listening to Donna Summer’s 'I Feel Love'. I should have been more attentive to what was going on in her music room but we were lost in our own world as if…as if something told us to be. I know I’m not making any sense. None of this makes any sense. I just wish it would all go away.” She rubbed her temples.
“Did anyone check on her after he left?”
“No. She had her own routine. She would play and then go to bed. There would be nights that I wouldn’t see her until the next morning. I didn’t have any reason to think this night would be any different.”
“But you did have reason. She was alone with a stranger.”
“Yes, but…oh I’ve already explained this. He didn’t seem…strange. Not at the time.”
“It’s interesting how all of you felt familiar with him.”
“Yes.”
“And comfortable.”
“Yes.” She sighed heavily.
“And none of you asked for him to remove his mask?”
“No.” She rubbed her eyes, smearing more makeup across her face.
Am I going in circles here?
“Carmen, can you remember if he took anything from the home? Was anything missing after he left?”
“No. He didn’t leave our presence until he went up to Claire’s music room. There wouldn’t have been anything to steal in there other than music books. I can’t go back in that room ever again, but you can ask the Watkins…they could tell you if anything was missing. The only thing he showed interest in was an antique in the dining room.”
“What do you mean?”
“When he first came into the house, I offered him a glass of wine. It seemed like the pleasant thing to do. We were in the dining room, you know talking, and he slid his hand across a buffet table that’s against their wall. He said, ‘This is a gorgeous piece’ and that was it. He never mentioned it again or about anything else in the home. I didn’t think anything of it since the Watkins have so many nice pieces. Furniture I could never afford. But this man wasn’t there to steal anything, Detective. He wanted to see Claire. That’s the only reason he was there.”
The story from the younger son, Stephen, bore a similarity to the others. He and Karen played Scrabble in the living room while Carmen cleaned a special set of Maison Blanche silverware usually set aside for brunch guests. Claire practiced upstairs on the antique piano handed down by her grandfather, and all of them agreed that everything was as it should have been until the doorbell rang and Carmen answered it. According to Stephen’s statement, the man he saw enter their home was “older than Karen and younger than Carmen.” His face was hidden behind a bird mask and he was carrying a wooden violin case.
“He was…cute.” Karen sat across from me again, a little more relaxed than before.
“What made this man attractive, Karen?” I handed her a chocolate croissant.
“He was foxy. That’s all. He was stylish with these cool black boots. I guess he was around twenty or so. I never saw his whole face so I don’t know, but he was young. He looked buff and his hair was short. It was black and his eyes were brown. I remember that. I
could see them from behind the mask and he stared at me…like he was flirting. And he had a nice voice…it was sort of lyrical, you know? Soothing I guess.”
She took the croissant and nibbled at its edge, bit a piece of the rich chocolate, then placed it back down on the napkin as if she had eaten too much.
“What did he say to you?”
She again distractedly toyed with the pastry, tearing off tiny pieces and slipping them into her mouth.
“He said he was there to meet Claire and to practice with her. He had brought his violin, so we all thought he was a musician. He claimed he had come from the masquerade party my parents were at, but they don’t remember him at all. He said his name was Thomas. Thomas Carpenter.” Karen looked up with a furrowed brow. I let the name filter through my mind but it didn’t register or ring any bells. I ruminated over the last three years, of all the cases I handled.
Thomas Carpenter. Think about the names. So many names. Think, Brenda, think. Nothing.
Reviewing the night again, Karen admitted that it was hazy, fuzzy around the edges. Reliving all of the details exhausted her. She slumped so low in her chair that I thought she was going to slip under the table. This young girl simply wanted to crawl under there, fall asleep, curl herself up into a tight ball and hibernate until her grief subsided.
I know how you feel. After my father’s murder, I wanted to disappear, have my grief all to myself.
“Thomas stayed for a little while and hung out. He talked and drank some wine with us until she came downstairs from her practicing. When she came down, they went back up to her music room together. That’s the last time we saw her. He didn’t seem…evil.” She left a strong emphasis on the last word as she ran her hand through her long dark blonde hair, twisting a curl around her finger. She pulled herself up straight and ate the rest of the croissant, wiping her mouth with a napkin and placing it between the two of us.
“Karen, at your home this morning, you whispered something to your brother in the foyer. Do you mind telling me what it was you said to him?”
