The Violated

by Bill Pronzini

  No, that was a cop-out. There was always more you could do, so many worthwhile charities, so many needy people. And not just by giving money but by donating time as well. Children, for instance. Disadvantaged children, hearing-impaired children, autistic and Down’s syndrome children. Children afflicted with cerebral palsy like my younger brother Paul. Griff had suggested a number of times that I volunteer for a child-oriented charity, and once without telling him I’d made the effort. Volunteered part-time at a camp for kids with Down’s syndrome … and lasted less than two weeks. A painful experience, very. The problem I’d had was not too little empathy but too much; I’d felt like weeping the entire time I was there.

  I liked children, I really did, but I couldn’t help being ambivalent about having a child of my own. Couldn’t help being afraid. Of another miscarriage and the physical and mental anguish it caused. Of a baby’s being born with a severe birth defect like Down’s, a real possibility for a woman my age, or cerebral palsy like Paul. Of the changes the demands of parenthood would bring to an orderly, comfortable lifestyle. And of the increasingly chaotic world we lived in, evidence of which I faced every day in the details and stresses of Griff’s job. Bringing a child into such an unstable and violent environment seemed somehow irresponsible, almost cruel.

  Fears, Jenna? Or rationalizations, excuses?

  Griff wanted so much to be a father, and I hated to keep disappointing him. I’d almost let him talk me into adopting, if not having a baby of our own, but then the series of violent rapes started. Those poor women, so much pain and suffering … I’d backed off again. Now…

  Now I needed to stop brooding and get out of this house, do something constructive that involved interaction with others. It wasn’t my day at the seniors’ home, but there was no reason why I couldn’t go there anyway. They were understaffed, they always needed volunteers.

  I put on my coat and went out to the car, leaving all my painting and sketching tools behind. Whatever I could do at the home today, it would be more beneficial than teaching the rudiments of art.

  EILEEN JORDAN

  I went shopping at Safeway this morning and it was as if I weren’t there at all.

  No one looked at me as I pushed my cart up and down the aisles, through the frozen-food and canned-goods and housewares and produce sections. No one spoke to me. I didn’t stop at the meat-and-fish counter, but if I had, I felt that I would not have been served because none of the butchers would have noticed me waiting. The invisible woman. Not even a shadow of her former self, not that her former self had cast much of a shadow, either.

  There was more to the sense of unreality. It was not just as if I had become invisible, it was as if the sentient part of me had separated from my body and I functioned in an interactive dream state, watching my invisible self picking items off shelves and putting them into the cart, pushing the cart into the checkout lane, placing my purchases on the conveyor belt, paying an unseeing checker with a credit card. Watching while I participated, my tactile and olfactory senses intact. The chill of frozen dinners, the hardness of cans, the softness of vegetables; the odor of roasted chicken, the scent of fresh herbs, the tang of oranges.

  I have only vague memories of driving to the supermarket, driving back home again. I must have been aware enough to make both trips safely, but when I was inside the house again, it was as if I had never left. Three bags of groceries sat on the kitchen table; I must have carried them in from the car, but I had no recollection of it.

  The feeling of unreality left me as I unloaded the bags and put the items away in the refrigerator, the bread box, the cabinets next to the sink. I was myself again. Whole again, or as whole as I would ever be. It was as if the world outside no longer existed for me. As if my part in it, my reality, had narrowed to these three drab rooms.

  When had I last eaten? I couldn’t remember—sometime yesterday, and then only a little soup. I was aware of rumblings in my stomach, hunger pangs, but the thought of food, any kind of food, nauseated me. Tea, juice, broth … not any of those, either.

  I went once more to sit in Grandmother’s rocker. I spent more and more time there, looking at nothing, hardly even thinking so as to avoid flashback memories of the invasion. After my experience at Safeway, I was not sure I could bring myself to leave the cottage again for any reason. I had no interest in anything anymore, it seemed. Not teaching. Not reading or gardening or walking in the park or visiting with Barbara or any of the other simple pleasures that had occupied my time for so many years. All I cared to do was sit here rocking, rocking, rocking.

  Would reality contract even more, from the three drab rooms to this chair alone? Would I then just sit here all day and all night, unwilling or unable to move, wasting away, fading until I was no longer even a shadow, no longer here either anymore?

  I mustn’t let that happen. Yet there does not seem to be any way to prevent it.

  TED LOWENSTEIN

  Judging from the initial responses to our website posts, a fairly large percentage of our benevolent citizens were satisfied that Martin Torrey had gotten what he deserved, whether he was the serial rapist or not. E-mails were running about 20 percent along those lines. One bigoted idiot even went so far as to write that all sex offenders, no matter what their specific crimes, “should be killed along with all the rest of the fags and felons so decent people can sleep nights.” I turned that one over to Griff Kells, but nothing had come of it. Apparently the writer was nothing more than a dim-witted crank.

  Most correspondents remained supportive of Kells’s and his department’s efforts, and of the Clarion’s stance in their favor. A few—hell, more than a few—took exception to my most recent anti-Delahunt editorial, but that was nothing new; he still had a lot of backers in Santa Rita, among them his brother-in-law, Councilman Pendergast, Councilwoman Young, and the other prominent dunderheads who’d helped put him in office.

  I kept telling myself I was making inroads among the voters, changing enough minds to get him defeated if he ran for another term as mayor or, more likely, for the county board of supervisors. But that wasn’t necessarily the case. In my younger days I subscribed 100 percent to Lincoln’s famous quote about not being able to fool all the people all of the time. Now, in my cynical middle age, I’ve begun to think that Mencken’s equally famous line about never underestimating the intelligence of the great masses of plain people is more on target. Particularly where politics is concerned.

  I was in a short-tempered mood today, made worse by a harassing phone call from one of the mayor’s cronies on the county board of supervisors. I hung up on him midway through his pro-Delahunt, anti-Kells, anti-Lowenstein harangue. Shortly afterward the Smith kid turned in a late, crappy account of the latest loss by the Santa Rita high school basketball team, and I dressed him down about it in front of the other reporters—something I wouldn’t have done if I had been in a better frame of mind. I snapped at a couple of other staff members, blue-penciled the wording in a forthcoming display ad, turned thumbs down on Phil Goldstein’s flower show photos and ordered him to reshoot. A good thing this wasn’t one of Angela’s days at the office or I might have taken out my frustration on her, too.

  Frustration is what it was, pure and simple. Too much happening in too short a time, with no resolution in sight. For some members of the media, the kind of ongoing “hot news” that was happening in Santa Rita was a godsend; they milked it for all it was worth, using the “public’s right to know” mantra as an excuse to further careers. Not me. One thing I could say for myself: despite my cynicism, despite all the irritants and tumult, my journalistic integrity remained intact. And would stay that way as long as I owned the Clarion, as long as I still had a pulse.

  LIANE TORREY

  I kept telling myself it was too soon to be doing this, but I kept on doing it just the same. Emptying the dresser drawers of Martin’s shirts, socks, underwear, pajamas. Emptying the closets of his one suit, slacks, work pants, jackets, ties, belts, work shoes,
dress shoes. Emptying the nightstand drawers, the medicine cabinet, his portion of our shared jewelry box. Emptying the living room shelves of the team bowling trophy he’d won in Massillon, the wood-and-stone clock he’d bought at a flea market, the few other items of little or no value he’d deemed worthy of display.

  Emptying the last vestiges of him from my life.

  I justified it in two ways. The chore had to be done sooner or later, so why put it off, why keep all the reminders of him to make me feel even more despondent? And it kept me busy, kept me from moping around, brooding, because I had nothing else to occupy my time right now.

  Holly had insisted on taking care of the funeral arrangements. Not that there would be any funeral or burial or even a coffin to pick out. Martin’s shell would be cremated in a pine box, per his wishes. I would not keep his ashes in an urn, as some people did with their loved ones’ cremains. That sort of thing had always seemed morbid to me, a constant … what was the phrase? Memento mori. Reminder of death. His would be scattered somewhere by Nick or Holly, someone other than me. Ashes to ashes.

  Ashes.

  Allan wanted me to come back to work. His temporary hygienist wasn’t doing a good job, he said, though that was probably an exaggeration for my benefit, and the sooner I reestablished a semblance of normalcy, the healthier it would be for me. He was right in theory, but I wasn’t ready yet to face his parade of patients, people who would ask questions, make accusations with their eyes if not their mouths. I told him I needed more time to regain my equilibrium, at least another week. He understood. He’s a very understanding man.

  Holly says he’s in love with me. Martin thought so, too, enough to be cryptically if not actively jealous. Maybe Allan is, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter right now whether he is or not. Or exactly what my feelings are toward him. It might never matter. I don’t know that I could ever love another man, marry again, put the kind of trust into a relationship that I put into mine with Martin. I just don’t know.

  All of Martin’s belongings went into four of the cartons we’d used for our move from Ohio. He had saved them, flattened and string tied, in a corner of the garage. “Just in case we have to move again,” he’d said. I found some box tape and put six back together, but four were all that were needed. He hadn’t had many possessions. Thirty-four years old, ten years of marriage, and all that he owned fit into four medium-size shipping cartons.

  The only items I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of were our silver-framed wedding picture and the two thin photograph albums. I had to keep something to remember him by, didn’t I? To remember what our life had been like before his arrest and conviction and sentence to the psychiatric facility.

  He looked so happy in the wedding photo, in the other photos Nick had taken at the reception. So did I. Smiling while we cut the cake, smiling at Mom and Dad and the handful of other guests, smiling at each other. I couldn’t bear to part with those, especially the ones with my parents in them—they were the last I had of them together before Dad died of a heart attack the following year and colon cancer killed Mom the year after that. All the rest were candid snaps from the good years, the hopeful years. There were no photos of our time in Santa Rita. Not a single one.

  I took the framed picture and the albums into the bedroom and put them on a shelf in the closet. Maybe one day I would I take the wedding photo out and set it up where I could look at it again. But not here, not in this house.

  I wondered again how long it would be before I could move. The lease had another five months to run. Under the circumstances the landlord might let me break it without a penalty, but then again he might not. I hadn’t heard from him, and I hadn’t called because I was afraid of what he would say. Five more months in this place, with all its painful memories like lingering ghosts, would be the same as a prison sentence. But I would endure them if I had to, as I had endured everything else. Endurance, a cousin to resignation, was a hard lesson learned the past two years.

  I carried the boxes, one by one, out to Holly’s Subaru wagon. She’d insisted I use it as long as the Camry remained in police impound. Nick hadn’t liked the idea of her taking over his pickup, driving him to work in the morning and picking him up at night when he couldn’t catch another ride, but it wasn’t much of an inconvenience, and besides, she ruled their roost. More wondering: Would things have been different between Martin and me if I’d tried to rule ours?

  Probably not. It was a moot point anyhow. I wasn’t made the way Holly was, always needing to be in control. Neither was Martin, for that matter. The passive, nonconfrontational equality we’d shared had suited both our personalities.

  With the rear seats folded down, three of the cartons filled the back of the wagon. I wedged the other one into the passenger seat in front. Then I went into the garage to look around. Not much was there, other than a few stored items that I didn’t feel like sifting through. And Martin’s bowling ball and shoes in a box under the workbench. Bowling—another activity he’d lost interest in. Nobody would want a used ball and shoes, so I left them where they were.

  There was a hospice thrift store less than a mile from the house. They took everything, one of the employees helping me unload the cartons. And that was the end of it. The last remnants of Martin James Torrey given away to an organization dedicated to helping the terminally ill die with dignity. In a grim kind of way, it seemed fitting that they should go there.

  HUGH DELAHUNT

  Craig and I were having lunch at the country club, on the terrace overlooking the first tee. This fine spring day, warm and clear, was perfect for golf, and the links were crowded. He had suggested that we play a round, nine holes if not eighteen, and I’d have liked nothing better, but it wouldn’t have looked right for me to be openly enjoying myself with the Torrey murder still fresh in people’s minds. I was not about to give Lowenstein any more fodder.

  Tuesday’s Clarion lay on the table next to my shrimp salad. I jabbed a finger at the editorial. “I’d like to wring his goddamn neck.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Craig said. “He doesn’t say anything he hasn’t said before.”

  “It’s not what he says, it’s what he implies. That I’m weak, ineffectual, that I was a poor lawyer turned political-hack mayor with nobody’s best interests at heart but my own. If he keeps this up, he could do me some damage. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Take it easy, Hugh. You worry too much.”

  I smiled at him, the smile I use on the media. Craig is a loyal friend and a good husband to my sister Katherine, and I like him well enough, but he’s neither savvy nor intuitive. Just a big bearlike nebbish, too easygoing for his own good. Soderholm Brewery was a solid enterprise when he inherited it from his father, and a good thing, too, that it practically ran itself because he had little business acumen and no ambition. A shrewd businessman could have expanded the operation and doubled its profits by now.

  “Yes, I do worry too much,” I said. “And with good cause. Those rapes and now this murder reflect badly on me. If Lowenstein has his way, they’ll become a permanent black mark on my record.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Damn right I’m right.”

  “Well,” Craig said slowly, “we could always do what we talked about before. Pull my advertising, get Evan Pendergast to pull his.”

  I took a sip of my iced tea. Blah. What I really wanted was a double Tanqueray martini, but it wouldn’t look good, either, for me to be seen drinking alcohol in the middle of the day.

  “No,” I said. “That would only give Lowenstein more ammunition for his crusade against me. Too much chance of a voter backlash.”

  “Just threaten to pull the advertising, then. Give him an ultimatum: lay off or else.”

  “Use your head, Craig. That kind of tactic would have even more dire consequences. Lowenstein isn’t a man you can threaten. He’d get his back up and mount an even stronger attack. Come right out in one of his frigging editorials and accuse me,
you, Pendergast, of attempted extortion.”

  “So then, we’re between a rock and a hard place. I don’t see any other way to fight him.”

  “Oh, there’s another way,” I said. “A way to turn things around to my advantage, make him look bad in the public eye.”

  “How?”

  “Situational leverage.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Lowenstein strongly supports Chief Kells, doesn’t he? Even though Kells and his IU have failed miserably in solving either the rapes or the Torrey murder.”

  “So far.”

  “Yes, and I don’t see that changing in the immediate future. As long as we’ve got a murderer running around loose in our midst, the more incompetent Kells looks. And that makes Lowenstein look bad by extension—backing a loser whose ineptitude continues to put the citizens of Santa Rita at risk.”

  Craig rubbed a hand back and forth across his forehead, as if trying to massage his thought processes into some semblance of clarity. “How does that get him off your back?”

  “Situational leverage, like I said. Not with Lowenstein directly, with the members of the city council who continue to back Kells.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  Sometimes Craig could be remarkably dense. I swallowed an irritated sigh. “If Torrey’s murderer isn’t identified and arrested soon, very soon, you and Evan and Aretha and I will put pressure on those council members to do some housecleaning at the PD, fire Kells and Ortiz, promote Frank Judkins to chief and Charlie Eversham to lieutenant. Men sympathetic to my position.”

  “Okay. But suppose they can’t solve the murder, either?”

  “That’s not the point of this discussion. The point is Lowenstein and how to neutralize his threat to me. Removing Kells won’t stop the little pit bull from attacking me in print, but the voters will stop listening to him. Wrong about Kells, wrong about Hugh Delahunt.”