Wrath in the Blood

by Ronald Watkins

  Swensen sighed, then drew a breath he let out slowly before speaking. “Like I said earlier, after office hours I stopped off for a drink or two with some of my people so I didn't get home until about 7:00.”

  “Where'd you drink?” Kosack asked taking the chair with his jacket hung on the back across the small table, placing himself immediately in front of Swensen. The small black tape recorder hissed gently between them.

  Swensen met the detective's eyes. “At the Palomino, like I told you before. It was the usual office crowd. Jodi Iverson, Mike Cushing, one other for a little while.”

  “Who was that?”

  Swensen met the detective's eyes. “It's the same group I named before. I'm not trying to be cagey here.”

  It was Morrison who spoke. “You mentioned a Peter somebody before.”

  “Yeah, Pete Kaufman, one of my estimators.” Swensen grinned.

  “So you got home at 7:00 P.M., which was later than usual,” Kosack prompted.

  “Right, just like I said. I couldn't smell dinner or anything when I walked through the door. I called out like I always do but Leah didn't answer. Even Scottie her cat who's usually around wasn't in the house. I tell you it was really strange.” He looked at each detective in turn. “I don't think I've done a good job of saying just how strange this was. It was like walking into one of those model homes, you know what I mean?”

  “Your wife fixes you dinner?” Kosack asked.

  “Why not? She was raised on a ranch outside of Ft. Worth, Texas, and learned to cook early on, then she took gourmet cooking classes before we were married. She knew I liked to eat.” He patted his stomach and flashed his grin. “Some nights she picks up carry out, but almost always I can smell dinner waiting when I walk through the front door so when I didn't that really struck me as weird, especially since her car was in the garage.”

  “Go ahead,” Morrison urged quietly.

  “Like I told you before, I kept calling out as I went into the bedroom to take off my jacket. That's when I ...” Swensen's voice suddenly choked. It happened every time he reached this point.

  “It's O.K. Take your time,” Morrison said softly. “Just tell us what you saw.”

  Swensen drew another breath, this one uneven. He blinked his eyes as he let it out slowly. When he spoke his voice was flat. “Blood. There was blood everywhere. On the bed, the carpet, the walls.” He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes as if he had fine sand in them, then pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.

  Over his head the two detectives met eyes momentarily. Morrison shrugged almost imperceptivity.

  Swensen slowly gathered himself and continued. “The furniture was knocked over and pictures on the wall were broken. The room had been trashed. You saw all this for yourselves.”

  “What about the writing?” Morrison asked.

  “You saw that too. On the wall by the bathroom. 'Fucking honkies' it said. Where's Leah? Do you two have any idea?”

  “You're sure your wife wasn't in the room when you got there?” Kosack asked.

  “Of course I'm sure! It's like I told you. She wasn't home. Now that I think about it, thank God there was no body.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Kosack asked.

  Swensen looked up quickly. “Just that maybe she's still alive. It could be, couldn't it? Even with all the blood? Maybe it’s not even hers. Or maybe they took her away and bandaged her up, or maybe she crawled off into the alley or ...”

  “She's not in the neighborhood, Jack,” Morrison said. “We've looked everywhere.”

  “Is that what you're telling us? That you think the perpetrators carried your wife off with them and fixed her up?” Kosack asked.

  “No, I'm not saying that! What's with you? I'm desperate, O.K? Why are you asking me all these questions? Why don't you find her? She's hurt! She needs a doctor! Isn't that your job?”

  “Easy, Jack,” Morrison said, placing her hand lightly on his shoulder. “We are looking for her. Every cop in Phoenix is looking for her right now. Tell us the rest of it.”

  Swensen licked his lips. “More water, huh?” Morrison reached across the table and filled his cup again. Swensen could just as easily have done it himself, but he seemed to prefer giving orders. He gulped the water as if he were parched then said, “I guess I...freaked out. With all that blood and the writing, you can understand that, can't you? Naturally I assumed the worst. I ran around the house and screamed over and over for her. The neighbors must have heard that part.” He looked up for confirmation and Morrison nodded her head. “I searched the garage, then the backyard. I checked the arroyo behind the back wall. But she wasn't anywhere. That's when I called the police. You two arrived about thirty seconds after the first car got there.”

  “We were in the neighborhood on another case and heard the call,” Morrison explained. “What do you mean when you say, 'Naturally I assumed the worst?'”

  Swensen eyed them appraisingly. “Just what you two are thinking.”

  “What's that?” Morrison asked.

  “You're from homicide. That's what I thought at first. That she... That she was...”

  The detectives waited while the recorder emitted a quiet hiss. Then Kosack resumed, “Help us out here, Jack. What do you think happened?”

  “Isn't it obvious?”

  “Tell us anyway.”

  “Some people, ni... colored people I'd say from the writing, broke into the house and attacked my wife. They must have cut her really bad. There was a terrible struggle in the bedroom from the looks of it. Then I guess they took her with them.”

  Kosack appeared perplexed. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “Like I said earlier, I can't imagine. Leah didn't have an enemy in the ...” His voice trailed off.

  “Jack, I'm confused about something,” Kosack said. “Maybe you can help me out here. Some of the blood on the walls was smeared and in another place the wall had been cleaned. One section of the carpet was cut up and a section is missing. What is that all about?”

  “I saw it too. I can't explain it. I didn't touch any of the blood. Maybe...”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe after the... attack those people started to clean up the mess then...”

  “Then what?”

  “I don't know. Shit, I don't know!”

  “Have you had any trouble lately? Hang up or threatening calls? Lowlifes driving by the house?” Kosack asked.

  “Nothing like that, not that I recall or that Leah mentioned.”

  “Tell us, Jack,” Morrison asked, “is there anyone who would want to hurt your wife?”

  “Nobody. She was... pretty nice.” Morrison and Kosack both noticed he was using the past tense.

  “Besides your wife, anything else missing?” Kosack asked.

  “I... I can't say for sure. I was pretty upset when you asked me to check the valuables. You can understand that.”

  “You told us earlier you couldn't find anything gone from the house,” Kosack said.

  “I didn't, maybe later, when I'm thinking clearly I'll notice something.”

  “Her jewelry was there, right? You checked that out. Her purse with cash and credit cards.”

  “Yes. They were there.”

  “What kind of marriage do you have, Jack?” Morrison asked.

  Swensen looked at her quickly. “A good one,” he said emphatically. “We've been married six years. She helped me start the company, you know. We were talking about having a baby.”

  “Did you ever fight?” Morrison asked.

  Swensen shrugged. “I guess -- sometimes. Doesn't every couple? Nothing serious though.”

  “How about last night? That was Sunday. Did the two of you have a big fight?”

  “Last night? No. It was quiet, as usual.”

  “Does your wife have a lover?” Kosack asked.

  “What the hell is this?! Of course not! What's with you two?”

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” Kosack aske
d bluntly.

  “A girlfriend?” Swensen laughed. “I'm married. No, there's no... girlfriend.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I'm sure! What are you trying to say?”

  “Relax, Jack,” Morrison said. “Tom has to ask questions like that. You can understand that, can't you?”

  Swensen eyed Kosack. “Maybe.”

  “What about this Jodi Iverson from your office? Is she your girlfriend?” Kosack asked.

  “Of course not! I mean, she's a friend, I'm friends with everyone at the office. I like to run a family style operation. But it's not like you're saying. Anybody who says different is a liar!” One of his hands was balled into a fist.

  “I'm not saying anything, Jack. Just asking.”

  Swensen seemed to mull that around for a moment before continuing, “There's something I want to ask.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “What I want to know is, am I under arrest?”

  “Of course not,” Morrison answered. “You're free to leave any time you want, just like we told you before. You're here voluntarily trying to help us out.”

  Swensen laughed awkwardly. “I've been getting worried maybe you think I might have had something to do with this.”

  “What makes you think that?” Kosack asked.

  “Well, giving me my rights, all the questions. I'm not an idiot, though when my lawyer hears I'm cooperating he may think I'm one. But that's the way I am. I like to handle things myself if I can, just so I don't get pushed around, you know?”

  “We need to know everything you know, Jack,” Kosack said then nodded almost imperceptivity to his partner.

  “Did you and your wife, Leah, have any insurance?” Morrison asked as she sat in the chair beside Swensen. Kosack moved quietly towards the corner out of immediate sight so Swensen could focus on Morrison.

  “Sure. We have insurance, doesn't everybody?”

  “How much?”

  “I guess... I guess about $300,000.”

  “For both of you?”

  “Each. Why not? It's pretty standard. If anything I'm under insured. At least, that's what my agent keeps saying.”

  “You're certain about how much you have on your wife, right?”

  “Yeah, I'm certain. Listen, I could use something to eat and a trip to the head,” Swensen asked abruptly.

  “Sure thing.” Kosack opened the door and summoned a uniformed officer. “The rest room's down the hall. I'll show you,” he said reassuringly, smiling for the first time, looking as if it required effort. Kosack handed the uniformed officer two twenties and asked him to get them all cheeseburgers and fresh coffee from the all night coffee shop across the street.

  The detectives broke off the questioning half an hour later as Swensen dug into his burger, the small room was quickly enveloped with the ripe aroma of onions and mustard. He had finally removed his jacket which was hung across the back of the chair. They conferred quietly in the hallway, their heads almost touching.

  “What do you think?” Morrison said.

  “Guilty.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Unless he gets smart and asks for a lawyer I think he'll spill his guts by morning and take us to the body.”

  “What was that about a girlfriend?” Morrison asked, stretching, rolling her head around in a slow, complete circle.

  Kosack's eyes lingered on her breasts for a moment before he said, “Right after we arrived I took a call from one Jodi Iverson. She heard Jack had been brought to the station. I asked who she was.”

  “And she told you that she was his girlfriend?” Morrison said with disbelief.

  “No. Let's just say the question came to mind after I talked to her. Why don't you stay with it for a while? He seems to respond to the mother's touch.”

  “Mother? Is that what I'm doing? I thought I was playing the soft, sympathetic role.”

  “Did you get a load of that house? Who would have thought covered parking could be so profitable?”

  “He's done well for himself, but my guess is he's in debt up to his neck. He's got that hocked feel about him. She drives the Acura in the garage and he drives the green Jaguar. Both are probably leased. You know these contractor types. All show.”

  They stood in silence before Kosack said, “How do you make it?”

  Morrison shrugged delicately. “Neighbors say they heard a godawful fight last night. I say he offed her then. Probably he had been planning it all year but couldn't get up the nerve. It would have been a lot cleaner if he had -- though I doubt much smarter. Sometime during the night he put her into the trunk of his pretty Jaguar sedan and dumped her somewhere, then he sat up all night trying to figure it out. He cleaned part of one wall, cut a bad place out of the carpet, probably thinking to have the carpet replaced, then realized it was impossible. He could never hide what had happened. When it came time for work he showered, dressed, and went like nothing had taken place. He couldn't think of anything clever all day and the drinks afterwards were no help. He got home and decided to call us and bluff it out. After all, he's Mister Model Citizen, Junior Chamber of Commerce, Rotary, Sun Angel Foundation. The writing on the wall was an afterthought to throw us off.”

  Kosack nodded. “Jeffrey McDonald all over again.” McDonald had been a green beret Army doctor who was convicted of butchering his wife and small children. He had made similar writings in blood on the walls, even self-inflicted a wound to give credence to his story that marauders under the influence of LSD had attacked him and murdered his family. “We need to get a search warrant for the car.”

  Morrison dipped her head once. “I'll see to it when we finish with him.”

  Kosack's thoughts seemed elsewhere. Finally he said, “If she was such a great cook I can't imagine he'd off her.” Kosack raised his hound dog face into a grin.

  Morrison stared through the doorway into the interview room where Swensen sat masticating his food with great concentration. “We haven't seen the girlfriend yet.”

  THREE

  The Swensen house sat at the end of a cul de sac in the midst of the Foothills Estates, the newest and most exclusive section of Phoenix located just east and north of the landmark Biltmore resort. It was still daylight though the sun was hovering near the horizon five hours earlier that Monday when forensic criminalist Maria Peña

  arrived. She was a woman of small proportions with skin the color of dark amber and from a distance could pass for an early teen. She possessed a serious demeanor and only away from her job displayed her infectious giggle.

  Morrison had stepped out of the house to tell the criminalist that though they had permission from the owner to conduct a search she and her partner were waiting on a search warrant. She asked Peña to wait outside until they received word it had been issued.

  Pe nodded her head then methodically scrutinized the outside of the house while there was still light, searching for blood or anything out of the ordinary that could be evidence of a crime. Finding nothing she took a series of photographs then waited at the driveway, watching the setting sun over the city, witnessing the street lights come on in successive waves, and wondered idly what it must be like to live in a place like this. Finally Kosack stuck his head out the front door to tell her they had a search warrant for the house and gave her the O.K. to start on the interior.

  Kosack and Morrison kept the husband in the living room asking questions as Peña. worked the bedroom. She began with a series of photographs. Any novice could tell that a horrendous fight had taken place in the room. In one spot, under a throw rug, the blood was still liquid and she was able to use an eyedropper to gather a sample. She swabbed several areas systematically, eighteen on the walls, sixteen more on the floor, marking each sample to match a diagram she had sketched of the room.

  Peña recovered samples from around the cut out in the rug near the closet, swabbed the portion of one wall that had been cleaned so she could identify the cleansing agent and confirm the presence of human blood.
She also took samples from an area where the blood had been ineffectively rubbed. Afterwards she checked the trash, every place in the house she could locate where trash might be, searching in vain for the rags that had been used to clean and the portion of the rug that had been removed.

  Shortly before 10:00 P.M. Kosack told Peña they were taking the owner downtown and that she would now be working alone. She watched the two officers escort Jack Swensen out to their unmarked police car.

  Maria Peña had started out wanting to be a cop like her father, a career choice he had discouraged. This civilian job opened up first, however, so she applied and was delighted when she was accepted. For the past four years she had watched cops do what they do while she did what she was trained in and decided this was better. No one tried to shoot her, no one screamed at her. Her father had advised her repeatedly that he did not think it wise for a woman to be a policeman. “It makes them hard,” he said. She was getting married in two months and the more she thought about becoming a mother the better the job seemed to her.

  After Swensen was gone Peña worked along the carpet on her hands and knees and near the corner by the bathroom found a tuft of hair. With tweezers she inserted it into a plastic evidence pouch, numbered it and marked its location on her map. From the dresser Peña painstakingly removed dozens of strands of hair from a woman's hairbrush, placed them in a plastic bag and logged them. Then she moved on to vacuum the scene, gather the bed sheets, and check the drains.

  In the kitchen she tested for human blood each of the knives which she found carefully inserted in place in a rich walnut butcher block. On one, a trace of blood tested at the base where the blade entered the wooden handle. She placed that knife into a plastic pouch. It was tedious, exhausting work that only wrapped up at dawn.

  By then Morrison was back at the house with a police lock to secure the crime scene. She looked tired and her clothes were rumpled. “What did you find?” she asked Peña as the slight woman placed her evidence cases into the trunk of the unmarked city car she drove.

  “From the looks of the blood locations it was a pretty violent fight. You've got a clear splatter pattern along one wall. I found coagulated blood under a rug. I've got one tuft of hair, vacuumed up a hundred more strands. The others probably won't be any help since I take it the husband's the suspect.”