Wrath in the Blood

by Ronald Watkins

  “Yes. We've got it on tape.”

  “What about the office manager, what's her name?” Morrison asked.

  “Paula Dinelli. She was at a church group until just after seven that night. Then she says she was home. No alibi. I think she's had the hots for our man, in a very spiritual way of course, for some time but kept it to herself. Now she's disillusioned. I don't think she's involved.”

  “No evidence then?”

  “Naw. I don't think she'd kill anyone, help Swensen out or cover for him. Jesus wouldn't love her if she had.”

  Morrison scribbled on her sheet of paper. “What else?”

  “Pete Kaufman had nothing more to add to what he said up front and Mike Cushing was even less helpful. He did allow that he used to date Iverson and that he recommended her for the job. He claims they are all great friends now. He's an asshole.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think Jodi Iverson would be wise not to step in front of his moving car. Both Kaufman and Cushing were with people Sunday night and at work on time Monday morning.”

  Morrison made notes. “O.K. Anything else?”

  “Did you read the lab reports?”

  “Yes. The Acura was clean but Maria Peña found a smear of blood in the trunk of the Jaguar which tested as Leah Swensen's blood. There were some strands of hair there as well that are consistent with the hair took from her brush. We've also got her blood all over her bedroom and the pattern of the blood supports the conclusion of a violent fight. How much blood would you say we had in the bedroom?”

  Kosack sighed. “Total? It's hard to say. A little can look like a lot when its splashed around, but sometimes an awful lot can look like not very much depending on how it's pooled. I'd say a pint, maybe even two, a regular blood bank.”

  “In any event it's enough blood to suggest our lady is dead.” Morrison wrote another note on the sheet of paper in front of her. “We also have a tuft of her hair, almost certainly forcefully pulled from her scalp. We've got blood on a butcher knife that was washed and put away afterwards.”

  “Maybe she cut herself that weekend.”

  “Right, Tom. Maybe there's a tooth fairy.” Morrison pulled her reports over. “I found a girlfriend of Leah Swensen, a Susan Merriott, who says that Leah was deathly afraid of her husband. Since Christmas Leah had been telling her that Jack knocked her around, careful not to strike her in the face where it would show. Don't you have a violent display for our guy?”

  “Right. About two months ago. All the co-workers observed it. He smashed a telephone to pieces but didn't hit anyone.”

  “What about Iverson? Did he knock her around?”

  “If he did, she's not telling. Hell, she probably likes it.”

  “Give me a break here, Tom, and save the sexist comments, O.K.? By the way, Goodnight dropped off the insurance forms yesterday.”

  “I noticed.” Kosack was suddenly deadpan.

  Morrison ignored it. “What else should we do? I'm running out of ideas.”

  “Find a body. We've searched the immediate area for a mile radius. I drove every direct route towards the desert and searched for any freshly turned ground. No bodies have turned up in dumpsters or alleys anywhere since the murder. Maybe he tossed her down a mine shaft. I say we go with the freeway story. They poured right at dawn to avoid the heat. Swensen wouldn't have had to straighten the top of the grave very much to get away with it. It was a thick layer of gravel. He'd know how to make it look. That convenience store I mentioned is in a direct line to the construction site. I say Jacky buried the body and stopped off to call the girlfriend for some backbone stiffening.”

  “Let me see,” Morrison said. “We've got an attempt at cleaning up the mess in the bedroom which is hardly consistent with a marauding band, and we have no witnesses to anything out of the ordinary that night. We've got an unhappy husband with a girlfriend and we've got a four million dollar insurance policy our kindly husband insisted his wife take out on herself and about which he has lied. I don't see the case getting any stronger. Let's get the last of the reports written up. We should walk this over to the prosecutor this morning for the go ahead. What do you think?”

  “He's our man. Let's do him.” Kosack scowled. “Goodnight's been nosing around.”

  “So I take it. He talked to Mrs. Durlacher I heard.”

  “Paula Dinelli complained to me that he tried to force her and others there to answer his questions.”

  “Did he say he was a police officer?”

  “No. I guess not. But she was upset about it.”

  Morrison lay her pen down. “What do you want Tom?”

  “I think we should complain to the prosecutor. I don't like that guy sticking his nose into our business.”

  Morrison sighed. “All right, partner, if you say so. We'll bring it up when we do the oral review with the prosecutor.” Morrison regarded her notes for a moment then said, “Oh, I almost forgot. Guess who Jack Swensen's father is?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Does the name Big Swede Swensen of Big Swede's Used Cars ring a bell?”

  “The Big Swede? The guy with the ax?”

  “The very same.”

  “I bought a clunker from him one time.” Kosack gave Morrison a mock look of satisfaction. “Payback's been slow coming.”

  ~

  Almost at the same time Jack Swensen drove his Jaguar to the west side of the city. He passed a series of dilapidated warehouses along Grand Avenue, drove a distance beside railroad tracks, then entered an area that was a bit more affluent than the residential area around it, but tacky nonetheless. He stopped in front of a ranch-style house built in the late 1950's. Almost as if he didn't want to get out of the car he sat there for a long minute, listening to the finely tuned engine turn over, feeling the cold draft of the air conditioned air on his face. Finally he killed the engine and walked to the side door by the carport and let himself in.

  “Dad?” he called out then heard his father's deep voice coming from the living room.

  Eric Swensen was sitting bare chested in a well-worn reclining chair, a can of beer in his fist, a baseball game on the old television set, the hair on his body having long since turned white. His sagging, reddish skin was wrapped in a cocoon of fine white fibers. He lived alone and the house showed the slow destruction that 10 years of absolute neglect brought on. There was a faint unpleasant odor about the house that caused Jack to be slightly nauseous whenever he was here.

  “I've been listening about you on the television,” Big Swede said aggressively. “What the hell have you been up to?”

  When Jack Swensen had been a small boy there was no one in life he feared more than his father. Big Swede Swensen knocked his only son and wife around almost daily, worked long hours at the car lot and spent his nights at the Clowns Den where he was a local celebrity, romancing straying wives in the back seat of his Cadillac. He was a man of gargantuan appetites and dogmatic opinions. Not once in his entire life had Jack Swensen managed to perform a single act to his father's satisfaction.

  Now as a grown man the fear he experienced for so many years at the sight of his father had dwindled, replaced by a need to visit a man he realized he didn't like, but in a peculiar way needed to keep in his life. He was quite disgusted by it but made these weekly treks regardless.

  Jack's mother, an accepting, dour woman, had died quietly of cancer when he had been in college. She had lingered in the hospital, apologizing every day for the expense, until he did not think he could stand to see her one more time. The Big Swede who had camped out at the hospital attended the funeral in a black suit, a grey fedora clutched in his oversized hands, weeping as if this were the greatest tragedy of his life.

  Overnight his womanizing stopped, replaced by the television set. He neglected his business and when the recession hit, Big Swede's Used Cars on the old highway with the immense neon sign of an ax disappeared over night, without the slightest fanfare, not even so much as a going
out of business sale.

  Swensen could not imagine where the money had gone. Now Big Swede lived on social security and rarely left the house. His final Cadillac sat in the carport, covered with dust, the four tires flat. The giant neon ax lay in the backyard covered with a green plastic sheet.

  Jack took a seat. “Everything's going to be fine, Dad.”

  “The hell you say.” There was no trace of the accent that had figured so prominently in his car ads. His voice was uncultured, reeked of the low class neighborhood in Racine, Wisconsin in which he had been raised. “Where's that wife of yours anyway?”

  “I don't know. After I went to work Monday someone attacked her in the house. I guess they took her with them.”

  “The television says you killed her. Imagine that.” Big Swede's eyes had not as yet left the television and he punctuated each statement with a swig from his can.

  “I'm a suspect. That's all. The police have to have someone to blame and they've picked me. It's going to be fine.”

  Big Swede snorted. “I suppose you'll want me to come visit you in jail.”

  “I'm not going to jail, Dad. I haven't done anything.”

  “That's what I used to tell your mother. She never believed me.” For the first time he took his eyes from the television and stared at his only child. “Well, the least you could have done was bring your old man some beer.”

  ELEVEN

  That afternoon John Goodnight's NICDI supervisor, Al Schiffman telephoned. “Jack Swensen's lawyer has filed a formal demand for payment from Combined Occidental. I guess he hasn't heard about the other policies yet. What have you got for me?” he asked.

  “Nothing positive but I think we can see the lay of the land. A neighbor reports a history of fights between the couple and a very loud exchange last Sunday night at about the time the lady went missing. I haven't been able to contact the other neighbor and I was blocked at the company. I didn't want to press it. I friend says Mrs. Swensen accused her husband of beating her and said he was seeing another woman. My sources at the Phoenix Police Department aren't the best and the primary detectives have given me no information, but there were signs of a violent struggle in the Swensen bedroom and a great deal of blood at the scene. Part of a wall was cleaned and there is a rumor that some carpeting was taken up. I can't swear to all of this since my source is getting it from hallway gossip. He said a search warrant turned up Mrs. Swensen's blood in the trunk of her husband's car. There's been no arrest, but I suspect they're about ready.”

  “O.K. I'll pass it along. Stone will want a written report. Has the name of a Texas lawyer named Gerald Westby come up yet?”

  “No.”

  “I guess he represents the insured's sister. Somehow he heard that Combined Occidental was thinking about making payment and raised hell. He's threatening a lawsuit if Stone authorizes a payment. Stone also got a call from the Deputy County Attorney out there threatening to file obstruction of justice charges on you. I think he called you a 'rogue former law enforcement officer.' Anyway, now Stone's in a tizzy – he can't figure out who he should be more afraid of this guy Perry or the Texas' lawyer – and he doesn't want you bothering anybody else. He says he never meant for you to break any laws.”

  Goodnight sighed. “I take it now I'm to stop my inquiry?”

  “For now. Hell, you know these guys. Tomorrow he'll be all hot to have you working the case. Just write up what you have and stand down for now.”

  ~

  Ed Perry hung up the telephone and told his secretary to send in Jack Swensen. When Swensen entered the large office accompanied by Jodi Iverson Perry grimaced then waved a hand at two well-padded leather chairs in front of his desk.

  Iverson assumed her place with a flash of leg. Her cream white blouse was loosened one button too many but Perry had no objection to the view. His problem was with his client's judgment, so with a sigh he decided to begin there.

  “Jack, why is Jodi here? I thought I told you to stay away from her.” His glasses flashed with the reflected light from his Churchill banker's desk lamp.

  “Did you? Look Ed, it's been hell. I didn't think it would make that much difference. Come on.”

  “I understand you were staying with her until your place was released to you and that she's now playing house with you.” Iverson squirmed in her chair.

  “I had to stay somewhere,” Swensen protested. “And there's no reason why Jodi shouldn't spend some time with me at my place. Frankly, I don't think any of this is your business.”

  Perry sighed again. “Has it occurred to you just how all of this looks to others – especially to the police?”

  “I don't care how it looks. I haven't done anything wrong. I can't help it if the cops are suspicious.”

  “You should. The prosecutor needs a motive to charge you with murder and the detectives know that. So far they've got a life insurance policy and this woman you've got the hots for. The way they see it you've been so calloused at the brutal murder of your wife you shacked up with your mistress the next day and moved her into your house before the end of the week. Morrison and Kosack couldn't be happier right now if you'd signed a confession.”

  Iverson was intermittently examining red fingernails then meeting Perry's eye as if she wanted to make friends.

  “I... I have to admit I really hadn't thought of it like that.”

  “The reason you hire a lawyer, Jack, is to listen to and follow his advice. We haven't much time so I want to review the state of the case against you and get your response. It's important you tell me the truth this time – and Jodi needs to wait outside.”

  “I haven't done anything! How many times do I have to say it?”

  “It's going to take a lot more than you saying that over and over to bail you out of this mess.” Perry looked at Iverson. “Would you mind waiting outside, please?”

  “Is that really necessary?” Swensen said, placing a restraining arm across her lap.

  “What we are about to have is a privileged conversation,” Perry said as if talking to a child. “Jodi is neither your wife nor an employee of mine. She could be compelled to testify to what we discuss – so she leaves.”

  “I...”

  “Jack, she leaves.”

  “It's all right,” Iverson said in her whisper. “I don't mind. Ed's got a point Jack and you shouldn't give him a hard time. I'll have a smoke and will be right outside if you need me.” She smiled at the lawyer then walked slowly out of the office.

  Perry wondered for a moment why Swensen couldn't see the kind of woman she was. His client might be a clever contractor but was quite naive in other ways. When the door was closed Perry said, “You're going to need a bank roll to defend yourself so I've filed a demand to have Leah's standard company policy paid, but I doubt the company will do it. We'll see. I've got more on insurance in a minute. I just got off the telephone with prosecutor, Bill Gage. We went to law school together and he was good enough to give me an overview of the case. The detectives just reviewed the case with him. I'm going to take this step by step and have you respond. I want to remind you that nothing you tell me can be used against you, nor can I ever be forced to disclose it. I'm on your side, Jack. You've got to trust me.”

  “I haven't done anything! And I'm getting pretty goddamn sick of saying it. It's your job to get these bastards off my back, not tell me how to run my life!”

  “First things first. The blood found in your house has been identified as your wife's. If this matter goes to trial we can fight the test procedures and maybe get it excluded, but for now let's assume that is what a jury will hear. We need to look at this with absolute candor. How do you account for the blood?”

  Swensen shook his head slowly. “I can't. And I tell you I've tried. Nothing happened Sunday night! I keep saying that – and no one is listening to me. I had breakfast Monday morning as usual and...went to work. The first time I saw the blood was Monday night when I got home and I called the police right away. That's the God
's truth.”

  “Someone tried to clean the blood off the walls and cut a piece of carpet up. What do you know about that?”

  “Absolutely nothing. It was like that when I got home.”

  Perry eyed his client skeptically. “Where'd the blood come from, Jack? What happened in your bedroom?”

  “I... Someone must have come by the house on Monday. That's all I've been able to come up with. The police have got their times mixed up.”

  “No one saw any blacks, or anything out of place all that day. This is a very well to do neighborhood and people notice persons who don't belong on their streets. No one saw a thing.”

  “So maybe it was someone in a... nice car, a clean cut white man – a rapist. Things got out of hand, he put Leah in his car and drove off. No one would see anything out of the ordinary. He wrote that note about honkies to divert attention from himself. There has to be an explanation.”

  “Rapists don't usually slice up their victims, and if they're the kind who do, they don't try to clean up afterwards – and they don't take the body with them when they leave. The police found Leah's blood at the base of one of your butcher knives which had been cleaned and put away. Killers don't do dishes.”

  The part about the blood on the butcher knife seemed to draw Swensen up. “Maybe Leah cut herself that morning,” he said without emphasis. “I don't know!”

  “Gage just told me that the criminalist found hairs in the trunk of your Jaguar that match those of your wife. She also found a blood smear that tests as her blood in that same trunk. How do you think the hair and blood got there?”

  “What?! I just had the Jaguar serviced that Saturday. Afterwards they cleaned it out and washed and waxed it. That car was immaculate.”

  “I wish you hadn't said that. It's even worse since it eliminates the possibility that the hair or blood could have been in the trunk for some time. Tell me where you had this done. Maybe they didn't go into the trunk.”