Murder Is Academic

by P. M. Carlson

  XIII

  6 Aqbal (January 10, 1968)

  Parsonsville, said the little sign. Mary Beth pulled over onto the red clay shoulder and looked at the map. Better get gas here, it would be a long way to the next town. It was four-fifteen now. She could get dinner at McKinley, about ninety miles on.

  It was almost wintry here, away from the Tropics, away from the balmy Texas air too. Not cold, but bare, the vegetation resting, tan and still, only a few slow-growing dusty greens. No snow, of course. Not real winter here, even in January. The sun behind high hazy clouds shed flat light on the colorless dead leaves and on the somnolent evergreens. Mary Beth drove slowly into town, past sleepy clapboard houses, looking for gas.

  The station was at the crossroads, a broad asphalt area by the highway, a little white-tiled building set far back against a hill. She asked the attendant to fill it and started back toward the rest rooms at the side of the building, modestly shielded by a planting of evergreens. A couple of men in jeans and work shirts were just getting ready to leave, joking as they climbed into pickup trucks. A third, sleeves rolled up, with hair the same rusty brown of a chipmunk on head and chest and forearms, was coming out of the men’s room as she went in next door. When she had finished, she washed her hands, looking at her blonde confident image in the cracked mirror, and turned the steel doorknob to start back out to the Land Rover.

  The hand came from behind, clamping over mouth and nostrils. She struggled wildly, unable to scream as his fist rammed into ribs and kidneys, and then there was a sudden searing pain that froze her. The other arm, chipmunk-furred, was now pressing a knife point under her left breast. “Quiet, whore,” he said softly. “Nobody’ll get hurt if you’re quiet.” He pulled her back behind the station. The knife was long, with a pebbly black handle and a little curve at the tip of the blade. There was a little bit of blood trickling across it. Mine, thought Mary Beth suddenly, my blood. He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die. Please God, not yet.

  He punched her down into the dead weeds where the gas station building was set into the foot of the hill. It was not tiled on the back, just white stucco with gray stains streaking down from the roof. There was rubble under the weeds, something sharp and lumpy against her back, but that was not important, the knife was important. He had kicked her and moved around on top of her and his hand was not on her mouth anymore, but she could not scream because the knife was still there, solid under her breast. Her blood. She was going to die. He was the Lord of Death, his grunting kept time with the shrieks of silent laughter. I won’t scream; at least I can control that, she thought. I’ll die with dignity. She closed her eyes. He did something, moved her jeans down, and there was more pain now, in her dry vagina. Dry flesh rasping against her dry softness. But that was not important, the knife was important. Dying with dignity was important. He said over and over, rhythmically, “Quiet, whore. Stupid whore. Stupid whore. Quiet.” He had been drinking beer, she could smell it on his breath. I will not scream, she thought. I’ll die with dignity. Please God.

  After a long time he stopped. He said, “Whore, you tell anyone, I’ll kill you. I’ll find you. I’ve got your plate numbers.” Then when she was still quiet the knife turned in her wound and he said, “What do you say?”

  She lost her dignity and gasped, “I won’t tell. Promise.”

  “Damn right. You’re not that stupid, stupid whore.”

  The knife went away and he stood up. Mary Beth opened her eyes just a crack. He stood straddling her, but he had not zipped his jeans yet, his pubic hair was chipmunk-colored too. Then something hot and liquid slapped her face. Her eyes blinked closed in reflex and it poured over her face and neck and shirt. He was urinating on her. She lay very still because of the knife. There were footsteps going away, a truck starting. She lay still.

  After a while the urine was cold, evaporating. She became aware of the stinging under her breast and the deep harsh burning pain in her genitals.

  She was not dead.

  Oh dear God, she was not dead.

  She opened her eyes. The sky was still pearl-white. The sun was still throwing faint shadows across the hill.

  He was gone. He had not killed her.

  But he would—he said he would, if she told.

  She stood up and looked around. He was really gone.

  She was not dead.

  She zipped her jeans and hurried around the corner into the rest room and locked the door. She took off her clothes and washed carefully under her breast. She washed her face and hair and genitals. She washed her clothes. There were not enough paper towels. She washed her face and body and genitals again. There was some blood down there too.

  He would kill her if she told. He knew her license number.

  She put on the wet clothes and combed her hair very carefully. It was a quarter to five. She turned to go out.

  She could not.

  It was a metal door with chipped white paint and a grubby steel knob. Mary Beth stood, wet and cold, and stared at the steel knob. She began to tremble—first little shivers, then more and more, until she had to lean on the back of the toilet to keep from falling. Then there was a knock on the door.

  “You okay, little lady?”

  She froze. He was coming to kill her.

  But no, that was not his voice. She lunged forward and opened the door and saw the attendant, white-haired, startled. She ran a couple of steps toward her car.

  “You okay?”

  She still could not answer. She was shivering.

  “Looks like you fell in,” he commented, concerned, trying to make a joke for her.

  “Almost,” she said somehow. “How much do I owe you?” She edged toward the Land Rover, away from the dreadful door.

  “Four-fifty.”

  He had not stolen her money. She found a five and gave it to the attendant, and got in the Land Rover and locked the door, and drove off without waiting for the change.

  She drove for hours, until her clothes were dry and stiff. She wanted two things, to get away from him, and to wash. In her suitcase were soft dry clothes and lotions. But she was afraid, and kept on driving. When she needed gas she stayed locked in the car, shivering, slotting the window open to slip the money through. Finally, late at night, a consoling thought occurred to her. She had Texas plates on now. When she got to New York, she could get them changed. Then he couldn’t find her.

  Right now she was approaching Nashville. There was a motel; even this late it said “Vacancy.” She turned in, went to the office, and paid for a room. After locking her door, she quickly stripped and stepped into the shower. With lots of soap, she scrubbed herself carefully inside and out. She washed her mouth too, just in case. The soap tasted bitter and clean. Then she dried off carefully and put on soft clean clothes, clean underwear and jeans—and a sweater because it would be colder as she went north. She jammed her polluted clothes into the bathroom wastebasket and washed her hands again. Then she methodically applied cologne to her arms and neck and hair, because the smell of beer and urine wouldn’t leave her.

  If she told ... he would kill her.

  She stared at the phone a long time and finally snatched it up and called Tip in Arizona and blurted out what had happened. He was angry. He said my God, why did you let him do it? and she said there was a knife and he said how could you do this to me? She said I didn’t mean to, and he said intentions don’t count, how could you, how could you? So she hung up and put on more cologne and went to the office to pay for the call.

  Then she went back to the car and drove north.

  Putting it into words had started her shaking all over again. But this time Maggie was there to hold her, and Maggie was saying, “It’s so goddamn unfair.” The shaking turned into proper sobs which eventually subsided.

  After a few minutes she wiped her nose and asked, “Did I do the right thing?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course?”

  “You’re alive, dunce. Bright and wonder
ful and alive.”

  “But Tip said ... ”

  “The hell with Tip!” Maggie hugged her tighter. “God, Mary Beth. No wonder you didn’t want to talk.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that was it, wasn’t it?” Mary Beth was amazed that she hadn’t known. It wasn’t just the chipmunk man she was afraid of—it was the thought that Tip was right, that it was her fault. “Damn him, Maggie! Damn, damn, damn!”

  “Tip really blew it.”

  “Damn him, he had no right! I believed him, Maggie. Damn!” Hurt, and outraged for the first time, she pounded the mattress beside her.

  “Didn’t you have other friends you could have told?”

  “Well, when I got back here Sue was all full of her own problems too. Paying the rent, finding a new roommate. And also, she’s kind of extreme.”

  “Yeah. She would have got up an army and marched on Parsonsville.”

  “Probably. Like Sherman to the sea.” Mary Beth was surprised to find herself grinning.

  “Did you see a doctor?”

  “Yes. When I got back here. He said I had syphilis.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you tell him it was rape?”

  “No.” She sat back a little and pushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Because he was so goddamn ... You know what he said?”

  “What?”

  “Well, he was examining me. You know, very jolly, while that cold steel speculum pries open your vagina?”

  “Yeah. I hate that too.”

  “And he said, ‘Well, young lady, one of your boyfriends is pretty rough.’”

  “Jesus.”

  “And he said I’d probably been sleeping around a lot, and wanted to know the names of all my sex partners.”

  “Didn’t he notice your bruises?”

  “I told the nurse no breast exam, and so the bruises were mostly under the sheet. He would have thought it was that rough boyfriend, I bet. Anyway, I was probably a simple case for him. Prescribe the penicillin, move on to the next immoral young slut.”

  “The penicillin cured you?”

  “Yeah. At least the symptoms went away.”

  “Good.”

  “Do you think I should have told the police?” she asked anxiously.

  “I don’t know. They might have held you up a long time, maybe for nothing.”

  “Do you think he would really have killed me?”

  “God, Mary Beth, I don’t know. He could have, and didn’t. But who knows what might have happened if you had stayed around to press charges?”

  “I feel bad for the other women he’ll get.”

  “Sure. But you probably weren’t the first, and he was out loose, right? Anyway, if you’d lived there, it would have made more sense to call the police. I mean, he probably has friends there. You don’t. It would have been very hard for you.”

  “I see what you mean. I didn’t even know his name.”

  “It’s Tip that makes me mad.”

  “Yeah. He sure didn’t help.”

  “I wonder why? Did he seem okay before?”

  “Yeah.” It seemed so long ago now. “We were ... I thought we were very close. We had a lot of fun. Laughed at the same things. He was really interested in my work, and I was interested in what he was doing.”

  “Well, I guess when you called you hadn’t seen each other for a while.”

  “We’d written. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t believe now I was ever in love with him. I just feel numb about him. Except for one thing.”

  “What?”

  “It’s hard to explain. It’s just that when it happened, it didn’t have anything to do with sex, or anything like that. The guy was just attacking me in general, you know what I mean? Like a mugging. I didn’t even think about sex, I was just afraid he’d kill me. He was like the Lords of Death.”

  “Yeah. He was.”

  “Sex was just one more way to attack me. But then when Tip said those things, it suddenly got more important. It wasn’t just a mugging anymore. Tip made me think somehow it was my fault—that no one could love me, and I couldn’t love anyone.”

  “God, Mary Beth.”

  “Once you said to me, enjoy your immunity. Remember?”

  “I’m sorry. Jesus, I’m sorry, Mary Beth. Old salt-in-the-wound Ryan.”

  “Well, you were right. I haven’t had any sexual feelings for months, Maggie. I’m just not interested anymore.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No. And I keep thinking all men are like that. Frank. Even ... oh, Maggie, even Nick. Tonight.”

  “You were trying to protect me.” There was an odd smile on Maggie’s face.

  “Yeah. Something like that. Oh God, Maggie, can you ever forgive me? Can he?”

  “Yeah. He’s pretty understanding. But please tell your subconscious to leave Nick and me alone in the future.” There was grimness in her voice.

  “I promise, honest. But Maggie, do you think I’ll ever be normal again?”

  “Normal? Hell, Mary Beth, what do I know about normal?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know either.” She thought a minute. “I still love people. My mom and my sister, and Ros in Guatemala, and you and Sue and Jack—Jackie. Oh, God, why are we talking about me when Jackie is dead?”

  “It was time to talk. It’s no disrespect to Jackie.”

  “I wonder how it happened to her? Why was she there, on that ramp?”

  “Who knows? Coming to find us at the park? Or to visit Frank in Syracuse? I don’t know why she started that cake, though. God, I still can’t believe it happened to her, of all people.”

  Mary Beth nodded. There was a feeling of weariness and peace and of enormous sorrow for Jackie seeping into her. And something else, something unfamiliar.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, astonished.

  “So am I,” Maggie replied, smiling a little.

  “Nick says you always are.”

  “Damn Nick!” said Maggie with unnecessary vehemence. “Let’s go eat something.” She pulled Mary Beth roughly to her feet and they went down to fix toasted cheese sandwiches. And to talk about Jackie and cry.

  XIV

  11 Kach (June 19, 1968)

  At first the police had not released Jackie’s name to the press, but now that they had seen Mr. and Mrs. Edwards, they were giving out the information. On Wednesday, shortly after seven a.m., the telephone began to shrill. Maggie answered in the upstairs hall as Mary Beth and Sue came sleepily to their doors.

  “Hello? ... No, I’m sorry, you have the wrong number ... No, there’s no one of that name here ... No ... No .. . Good-bye.” The receiver slammed down.

  “Wrong number?” asked Sue.

  “No. Press. Listen, if anyone asks about Jackie, this is not the right place. Okay? Her parents will be back today and they shouldn’t be hassled.”

  “Of course not. And neither should we,” said Sue indignantly.

  The phone rang again. Maggie picked it up. “Hello? ... No, you must have the wrong number ... Okay, good-bye.” She replaced the receiver. “That one was more polite, at least. Okay if I take it off the hook?”

  “Please do,” said Sue.

  They fixed breakfast—a bleak affair. The news of Jackie’s death was on the local radio. Mary Beth switched it off. She felt exhausted and sad and angry at the insane world. And also, for the first time in months, worthwhile.

  The Edwardses arrived at eight-fifteen and went together to Jackie’s room. They could hear Mrs. Edwards sobbing occasionally. Two or three friends came by briefly, apologetically, saying they had heard the news on the radio but couldn’t get through on the phone. Sue confirmed the news, explained about the press, and asked them to come back in the afternoon.

  Nick arrived at nine, as promised. Maggie, opening the door, greeted him calmly.

  Mary Beth, who had heard them from upstairs, ran down and went to him. “Nick. I’m very, very sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mary Beth. You seem be
tter now.”

  “Yes. I was very upset last night. I’m sorry.”

  “I know you were. And you were trying to take care of Maggie.”

  So he did understand. She smiled at him, a rather wobbly smile. Maggie said, almost humorously, “We’ve agreed that in the future I’m to defend myself from your onslaughts by myself.”

  “I see.” His serious brown eyes met her unexpectedly defiant blue ones and he nodded. “Yes, I see. Look, I want to help, if I can. What needs to be done?”

  Maggie moved restlessly to the living room window to look out. “Little things, mostly. Jackie’s parents are here going through her things. They might need help. The press is after us. We’re running out of coffee.” She turned back to them. “The funeral will be in New Jersey, but we’ll have a memorial service here Friday.”

  “I’d like to come.”

  “If you want.”

  “What brand of coffee do you use?”

  “Cheapest.”

  “Okay, I’ll go ... ”

  He stopped as Mrs. Edwards came sobbing down the stairs. Mary Beth hurried to her. “Come on, now. Let’s have a cup of tea,” she said soothingly.

  “I just can’t manage,” Mrs. Edwards said brokenly.

  “It’s good to cry. Come on.” She took her to Sue in the kitchen. When she returned Nick and Maggie were standing silently at opposite ends of the sofa. His grave eyes were on her as she fingered the fringe of the blanket.

  The doorbell rang, followed by loud knocking. Maggie, as though released, ran out to answer it.

  “Yes?”

  “Chip Hunter, from the Eagle, ma’am. We’re after some background on the latest Triangle murder. This is where the dead girl lived? This, um, Jacqueline Edwards?”

  “Oh no. You have the wrong place.”

  “This is the address we were given.”

  “Oh no. This is the Eternal Light Commune now.” Maggie’s voice was breathless and sincere. Eyes widening, Mary Beth went to look into the hall. In the living room behind her, Nick began, inexplicably, to take off his shoes.