Murder Is Academic

by P. M. Carlson

  He beamed. “Nick, what good taste your friends have! Look, we’re going across the street to the bar for a while. Why don’t you bring Mary Beth and that other lovely creature if you find her, and we’ll all have a beer?”

  “I’ll see what they say,” said Nick. “Thanks.”

  “Good. See you, Mary Beth.” Cal went away.

  Nick looked back at Mary Beth and said, “You don’t like that idea.”

  She was tense, clutching her handbag in her lap. “No, I ... well, I prefer coffee to beer.”

  “Okay. No problem. Cal has plenty of other company.” He didn’t probe, just leaned back in the booth with a friendly grin, and said, “You’re studying the Maya, you said. Are you an anthropologist?”

  “A linguist,” she said, relaxing a little, and they talked about the Ixil for a while until Maggie reappeared.

  “Back at last,” she said cheerfully, handing the keys to Mary Beth and sliding back into the booth.

  “I’ve been learning about the Ixil,” said Nick. “Did you know about the dance dramas?”

  “The faithless wife and the seven Spaniards?”

  “Yes, that’s one. I find that inspiring. A people who have been devastated that way, learning to laugh about it. Somehow you feel that the inner core is still intact. They’ll be going strong after we’ve disappeared.”

  “They emphasize learning to bear things. To endure,” said Mary Beth. Jeez, why couldn’t she endure? She turned to Maggie. “Hey, did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Yes. But then I decided I should show Nick in the daylight. Are you busy Sunday, Nick?”

  “Yes, early show. But I’m completely free Monday.”

  “Great! I’m done after my morning class. How about a picnic for lunch?”

  “Yes. Where?”

  “Litchfield Gorge. It’s near the Schellsburg exit, about halfway to our house. That way nobody will have to drive too far.”

  “Done.”

  “But we’d better leave pretty soon tonight. It’s a forty-minute drive from here,” she explained.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said.

  “I am too, Nick. It’s all Mary Beth’s doing.”

  Mary Beth suddenly found herself basking in the approving gaze of the brown eyes and the blue. She shrugged. “Guess I’m the fool who rushes in,” she said.

  Maggie grinned. “The angel too, as it turns out.”

  The waitress appeared with the check and they split it. Then Maggie stood up. “Is noon okay Monday?”

  “Fine,” said Nick.

  “In the main parking lot. We walk up from there.”

  “Fine. I’ll expect a full diagnosis.”

  “You’ll have it. And there’ll be other things to talk about too.”

  “I thought as much.” They grinned at each other, and Mary Beth, puzzled, wondered what diagnosis he meant.

  They were outside now in the satiny June air. A man came out from the bar across the street toward them, staggering a little. They slowed to let him pass in front of them toward the brightly lit parking lot.

  “Nick, are you here for the whole summer?” asked Maggie.

  “No, they just jobbed me in for Cyrano. I’ll be off to the city again next week for a soap.”

  “Oh, will we be able to see you on TV?” asked Mary Beth eagerly.

  “Sure. If you can stand the show. Dreadful script. It’ll air in July, they say.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  “It’s not Cyrano,” he warned. “But thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll see you Monday, then.” He was standing by his car.

  There was a shadowed figure facing the wall not far from the Land Rover. Mary Beth realized suddenly that it was the drunk from across the street. He was urinating against the restaurant wall. Suddenly icy and weak, she reeled back a few steps and vomited onto the asphalt. She was aware, dimly, of Maggie and Nick catching her by the elbows as she began to fall, and of their voices somewhere far away, behind the shrieking Lords of Death.

  “Mary Beth! Can we help?”

  She couldn’t answer.

  “Do you think we should get her to a hospital, Maggie?”

  “I think she flashed on something. Give her a minute. Can you get that guy to move on?” And when Nick was gone, “Mary Beth. Can you hear me?”

  “I’ll be okay,” Mary Beth managed to say. She could hear better now, and the dim world was coming back into focus.

  “Good. He’s gone now,” Maggie said. “Everything is okay.”

  “How are you doing?” Nick was back, gentle and worried.

  “Better,” said Mary Beth. Maggie was wiping her face carefully with a tissue.

  “Hold her elbow a minute, Nick, okay?” Maggie took Mary Beth’s bag and pulled out the keys to the Land Rover and opened the passenger door. Mary Beth was lifted carefully and put on the seat.

  “Do you still feel sick?” Maggie asked, leaning in to stroke the blonde hair from her damp forehead.

  “Not really. Just weak. Also disgusting.”

  “Don’t worry. Put your head on your knees if you want. I’ll drive.” The door closed.

  “Will she be all right?” Nick still sounded anxious.

  “Sure. She’s tough. She’s just not very happy.”

  “Can I do anything else?”

  “Not a thing. You’re leaving her in the best of hands.”

  “That I know.”

  “Okay. We’ll see you Monday.”

  “If she’s all right.”

  “She’ll not only be all right, she’ll lead the way up the mountain. Listen, we’ll bring the food.”

  “Okay, if I can bring the wine.”

  “Something to go with beef.” She was climbing into the Land Rover.

  “Right. Sure she’ll be all right now?”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Mary Beth sturdily.

  The Land Rover moved out smoothly. As she slowed before leaving the parking lot, Maggie laid a gentle hand on Mary Beth’s shoulder. “Okay now?” she asked.

  “Yes. Just weak.”

  “Well, rest a little.”

  Mary Beth leaned back in the seat as they drove into the darkness, only dimly aware of something bulky in the back of the Land Rover. She dozed most of the way home. She woke once, and Maggie asked, “How are you doing?”

  “Better.”

  “Mary Beth, sometimes you have to talk about things. Drag them out to look at them so you know just what it is you want to forget. Then you can start forgetting.”

  “I can’t.”

  “It’s like your story. It helps if you can name your enemy.”

  “Maggie, no. I’m afraid.”

  “Okay.” Maggie sighed.

  Mary Beth changed the subject. “Is there something in the back there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Secret. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

  “You’ve got a hell of a lot of secrets, Maggie Ryan,” complained Mary Beth drowsily.

  “Don’t we all.”

  “Well, Nick was a good one. I like him.”

  “Yeah. My favorite uncle.”

  Mary Beth dozed off again. She woke briefly once more before they reached home. Maggie was humming happily to herself.

  X

  7 Hunaapu (June 15, 1968)

  The mood was growing in him again. All the tension at work, everybody always wanting something from him. May hadn’t been a bad month, nice weather, and she’d been nice too, in a good mood. But last night she’d started pushing. Always wanting something from him. A guy had to be in control of his own life. Pa said, “Stay in control, boy. There’s ways to stay in control.” But Pa had been wrong. The cops coming in, blue shirts, big sexy guys. No! No, maybe not big guys, just seemed that way when he’d been thirteen. Probably just average guys. Sweaty smell of the blue shirts. “Kid, where’s your mother?” Watching Pa, handcuffs, saying, “Listen, she was asking for it, you know? She was just some whore!” The s
weaty blue shirt again, “Where’s your mother, kid?” “She’ll be home later.” But they’d found out. She’d been gone three years by then, she and her golden retriever. And he’d had to go to the foster home. All rules and bean soup. Old bitch running the place, running her husband, running him. He took it a couple of years, ran away, got back in control. But now, she was pushing again. Hassle at work, hassle at home. The mood was growing.

  But today was his Saturday off, so he had to bide his time. Better to work from the job. No one kept very close tabs there, no time clock to punch. Almost like being self-employed. Respectable. He could bide his time. Next week sometime. He’d be working next weekend. Or maybe sooner. Maybe even Monday.

  The murderer turned to the classifieds. No puppies today, but there were kittens, as usual. Free to good homes. He could bide his time.

  Saturday, Jane was a bit hung over. Word had come yesterday: the department had recommended her for tenure. Hal, too, had been recommended, and now they were both to be considered by the college committee. Jane’s sense of dizzying relief that she had cleared this first hurdle was tempered a little by her sorrow for Linc. Cautiously, she had tried to comfort him; but his dark eyes were lifeless, and he taught his courses and cared for his finches like a big bearded automaton.

  Roger’s enthusiastic delight had known no bounds. He had bought champagne and they had celebrated with a giggly and juvenile night drinking it, watching old movies on TV, munching popcorn, and composing dirty limericks that had seemed hilarious at the time. Today, her head aching, she couldn’t remember any.

  Unfortunately, her work did not let up for hangovers. Summer school always proceeded at a killing pace, every day of the three-week session representing a week of classes in the regular school year. Even teaching a course she had taught before, it was hard work. Class did not meet on Saturdays, thank God, but the reading and grading went on. And on.

  The Verbal Learning Quarterly had returned the galleys for her negation article too. Like most journals, the VLQ was very leisurely about publishing things it had accepted, but wanted immediate responses when it finally set something in type. So proofing the galleys was a high priority today.

  She was stranded in her apartment. The idiot Volks was at the dealer again, suffering from catarrh or something. Ready Monday, they had cheerfully told her yesterday. So poor Roger, who could have dropped her by today on his way to Syracuse, would have to take time off Monday. Maybe she could find another ride.

  This afternoon, too, she had invited Sergeant Rayburn from the Laconia police to come talk to the WAR meeting. They had shifted the meeting place to her apartment in honor of the Volks’s indisposition. So, in addition to the two hours or so that the meeting would consume, she had to allow time to pick up the scattered newspapers and put clean towels in the bathroom and put the coffee on. Roger was helpful when she was so busy, but since he was spending the day in Syracuse and wouldn’t be back till late, it was up to her.

  She had read half of the exams by eleven o’clock, and put the stack down to get herself a cup of coffee. Sergeant Rayburn and the others should arrive by two. She could straighten the place, get a sandwich, and proof the galleys by then, and maybe start in on these boring exams again. She swooped up a bunch of books on infant behavior from her desk and stuck them on a shelf, then spread out the galleys and her manuscript on the desk and sat down with pencil and coffee to correct them. “Social Class Differences in the Acquisition of Negation.” Jane Freemann, New York State University at Laconia. Couldn’t even get her damn name right. She circled the final n and wrote in the symbol for deletion, then went on through the first paragraphs.

  When the doorbell rang a few minutes before two, she had almost finished the proofreading. It was Maggie Ryan and Jackie Edwards, who had written that incredibly good paper on French kids. They were followed soon by three other members of the group, and then by Sergeant Rayburn. Eventually everyone arrived, and the sergeant gave a short talk and addressed himself to an array of questions.

  “Why don’t you have more rapists in jail?” asked Jane.

  “Well, we try, of course. But besides all the usual problems of catching criminals, a lot of times the victims won’t press charges.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Reasons vary, I guess. Sometimes they say they want to at first and then later change their minds.”

  “Is it because they’re afraid?” asked Jackie.

  “Maybe. For some of them.”

  “But that would be true for any mugging,” objected Monica. “Anyone could be afraid the guy would come back later for revenge.”

  “Well, it’s true of rape especially.”

  “If they do press charges, do you usually get convictions?” asked Jane.

  Sergeant Rayburn looked uncomfortable. “Sometimes. Other times it’s pretty hard.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s usually just the victim’s word against the accused’s word.”

  Maggie said, “There’s other evidence, too. Semen, hair, bruises.”

  “Yeah, bruises help.”

  “Does that mean the other evidence doesn’t help?”

  “Well, about half the time the guys are impotent. No semen. And there are a lot of false accusations. Grudges. So a defense lawyer can say the victim was willing. You know, led on his client. But bruises and cuts show she probably didn’t really want it.”

  “So if you’re raped but not beat up, you don’t have a chance?”

  “Not much of one.”

  “Because the defense will say you were willing!”

  “Well, yes. Especially these days, if you’ve had a boyfriend or something. Or if you were wearing shorts or a miniskirt or something.”

  Terry said, “What about the rapist? What about his past record?”

  “You generally can’t bring that up in court. He’s supposed to be judged just on the evidence of what he’s accused of. Not his past life.”

  “But you just said the victim’s past life could be brought up if it helped the defense. Along with her miniskirt.”

  “Well, that’s the way it works.”

  “Look,” said Maggie. “What if someone pulls a knife on me and demands my wallet and I give it to him. You catch him and bring him to court. And I testify that I gave him the wallet because he pulled a knife on me. As a general rule would you expect him to be convicted?”

  “Yes, but of course it’s hard to say, cases are so different.”

  “Just in general, I mean. In general, would the defense attorney cross-examine me and say, ‘It’s your fault because you led him on by wearing obviously expensive clothes, tempting the poor fellow’?”

  Everyone smiled. Sergeant Rayburn said, “No.”

  “Would he say, ‘Well, in the past you’ve been known to give money to your friends. So obviously you gave your wallet to this guy with a knife just because you’re a generous person’?”

  “No,” admitted Sergeant Rayburn.

  “But if it’s sex the guy wants instead of money, suddenly it’s my fault. I’m giving it away, or I’m wearing the wrong clothes.”

  Sergeant Rayburn shrugged. “That’s just the way it is. That’s how juries see it.”

  Maggie said, “I think you’ve answered Professor Freeman’s question. About why more victims don’t press charges.”

  There was a short silence. Sergeant Rayburn looked unhappy. “It’s always hard for people who prosecute crimes,” he proposed.

  “Except that their morals aren’t usually publicly attacked,” said Jackie.

  Sergeant Rayburn was increasingly uncomfortable.

  “All right, sergeant,” Jane said sympathetically, “it’s not your fault that courts can be harder on rape victims than other victims. Maybe it would be useful if you told us what you need to make a good case.”

  “Okay.” Sergeant Rayburn was pleased at the change of subject. “Let’s say you’ve had several rapes or assaults in an area.”

  “
Like the Triangle Murderer,” suggested Terry.

  “Yeah. That’s a good example. Pretty extreme, because there most of the victims are dead.”

  Monica said, “At least they don’t have to face the defense attorney.”

  “Yeah. Well. We do have a little information from people who were driving by the area at the time of the murders. Since it’s on the highway, they all mention cars. A lot of them mention a gray or a blue Chevy, sixty-four or sixty-five. So we’re looking for that kind of car. We check the victims for evidence, of course, but there isn’t much. A few hairs, Caucasian, and a shirt button—common type, comes on J.C. Penney’s shirts. The old lady was holding that. No special pattern among the victims, except they were all alone in their cars. And that’s about it.”

  “Really? That’s all? No more clues?”

  Rayburn shrugged. “Who knows? They’ve combed the areas. And there’s a fine collection of things that might be clues, or might not. Out of seven victims, there were beer cans near five, two of them Bud. Is that a clue? Two discarded magazines. Tissues near three. A yogurt pot, half a dozen cigarette stubs, a kitten killed by a car, a pair of sunglasses, fast-food wrappers, old plastic bags, sales receipts, a white terry tube sock. You name it. Maybe some of them are clues. Maybe not. There’s no pattern.”

  “Seven women dead, and no pattern!”

  “I can advise you to stay in your cars around Syracuse. Be on guard. Don’t do anyone any favors. He’s using some trick, something a lot of women would fall for.”

  “Or men,” said Terry.

  “Maybe. I’m just trying to explain how things are.”

  “Okay,” said Maggie. “Suppose I’m lucky enough to come out alive. What evidence would you guys like to have?”

  “Identification, first. Anything you can get. License number, description. If there’s a witness to any of it, get that name too. Don’t wash. If you go to the hospital first, explain that it was rape so they’ll get samples and photos. And call us right away.”

  “Got it,” said Maggie.

  “If you can mark him somehow it would help. Scratch him or something.”

  “If he’s armed?”

  “Yeah, right, don’t fight guns or knives. That’s dumb, usually. But look for identifying marks. Or take things if you can, his comb or a paper. Or if he gets you in his car, hide something of yours under the seat.”