What she could see in a broken down old man like himself was beyond Goodnight but he was grateful for every minute she was with him.
PART TWO
FIFTEEN
It turned out to be a long, unusually hot summer. But the record was kept that year by the increase in drive-by shootings as much as by the temperature. Fourteen of them. Six dead, five more wounded. One shooting had occurred not three blocks from Goodnight's house.
Sky Harbor airport in Phoenix was closed two afternoons running when the temperature broke 120 degrees. T-shirts saying “I survived 122 degrees in Phoenix” suddenly appeared and the unamused, most common greeting became, “But it’s a dry heat!” The city smelled burned and the dust tasted acrid. Plants that had survived for years suddenly wilted and died no matter how much they were watered. The Midwesterners who had retired to Arizona gazed at the powder blue cloudless sky and wondered why they'd ever left home for this dust bowl.
The murder trial of Jack Swensen began on the first day of fall, a stingingly hot day that broke 114 degrees. Present was a reporter from the daily newspaper, one with the Associated Press and a local television reporter who taped a spot on the courthouse steps before lunch then disappeared for the remainder of the trial.
There had been slightly more than 100 murders in the city since Jack Swensen was indicted, several of them more sordid and headline grabbing than that of Leah Swensen. A deranged father hacked the head of his teenage son off beside an interstate highway. A mother of three drowned her children to spare them a lifetime in a sinful world, then decided she didn't mind continuing to live in it. A man was arrested when the body of his aged mother was discovered in his freezer. He explained he was preserving her for the time when medical science could cure her of the gunshot wound to her head.
The fact that the Swensens were yuppies from the prosperous Biltmore district, that it had been a savage murder and that the body of the victim was still undiscovered caused periodic articles over the summer, but it was scarcely a media frenzy.
The trial proceeded as much with a media yawn as anything. The only lasting interest was from perhaps a dozen faithful trial watchers who passed their retirement years attending murder trials, whispering during proceedings, comparing notes and observations in the hallway during breaks or over the lunch hour.
Every few weeks during the summer Ed Perry broached the subject of a deal with Bill Gage, twice over lunch, but the prosecutor's offer had not improved. On the occasions when he suggested entering a plea to his client Jack Swensen had looked shocked and responded by repeating that he hadn't done anything. Why should he agree to go to prison?
The case presented by the state to the jury was constructed on the physical and circumstantial evidence. Detectives Morrison and Kosack testified in the competent manner of any career police officer. Criminalist Maria Peña, not long back from her honeymoon in Spain and joyously pregnant, methodically testified to the scenes of a violent struggle and to the abundant placement of Leah Swensen's blood about the bedroom. Carpet had been removed, a portion of a wall cleaned, clothes washed free of blood and a kitchen knife with traces of blood carefully cleaned then returned to its place in the butcher block. Kathleen Ruman testified, as did Susan Merriott, Adrian Lyon and Richard Durlacher. The prosecutor built a relentless case of a loving wife, afraid of her cheating husband, a woman who had been physically abused, but who refused either to leave her husband or call the police.
Representatives of the three insurance companies testified to their polices. Paula Dinelli repeated the circumstances surrounding how Leah Swensen obtained life insurance, how her husband had insisted on the extra two policies and how the victim had tearfully complied.
The prosecutor also offered a motive for the killing in addition to more than four million dollars in insurance money. Jodi Iverson was a one day sensation when she testified frankly to her affair with Jack Swensen, that she lived in his house and had remained in contact with him in jail. In her plunging crimson dress and spiked high heeled shoes the newspaper dubbed her “the lady in red.”
In the end, on advice of counsel, Jack Swensen did not take the stand. When the case went to jury the local chairman of NOW delivered a statement from the courthouse steps that while O.J. Simpson may had demonstrated that some men can get away with spousal abuse and murder, Jack Swensen was not about to. She called for greater diligence and a more responsive police department to the complaints of battered wives.
The jury was out less than four hours following the six week trial.
~
Over huevos rancheros the morning after the verdict Conchita looked up intently from the newspaper and said, “Did you see they convicted that Swensen man?”
“I saw that.”
“I think they should execute him,” Conchita said with fierce intensity.
“I imagine that's just what the judge will order.”
Goodnight washed the breakfast dishes over Conchita's objections. He had done the same for Flo and during his years of bachelorhood. As he prepared to go back to his office to work Conchita said casually, “I let my apartment go.”
Goodnight merely grunted at the news.
“There wasn't anything left there anyway and I haven't slept there all summer. Everything I own and wanted to keep is here now.”
Still Goodnight said nothing.
“If you throw me out I'll be in the street,” she said with a light smile.
“Well, then,” he said finally, “I'll have to be sure I don't throw you out.”
Conchita grinned and kissed him on the mouth.
At midmorning the telephone rang in Goodnight's office. It was Gerald Westby, the attorney from Texas. “I understand we have a verdict,” he said without preamble.
“Yes, early last night.”
“It was on the wire service. Will you be authorizing release of the insurance money now, or are the companies going to try to wait out the appeal. My client won't stand for that. She'll sue.”
“That won't be necessary. None of the companies intend to wait on the appeals. I do have to prepare a formal report and forward it to them with my recommendation.”
“I thought you already investigated this matter?”
“Only perfunctorily. I'll need to do a bit more. And I have yet to see the police reports.”
“How long will that take?”
“A few days.”
“All right. I'll tell Lana Dahl that the money will be released early next week. If there is anything you need from me don't hesitate to ask. We'll speak later. It's good to be working with someone like you on this.”
~
Tom Kosack was cleaning the top of his desk which had become cluttered more than usual during the weeks of the Swensen murder trial. Balloons floated above him and Morrison with the brightly lettered word “Congratulations!” on each of them. He saw Goodnight quietly enter the squad room and was immediately irritated that the former ranger came in and out of here as he pleased.
“Need something?” Kosack asked.
“Congratulations on your conviction.”
“Yeah, well thanks. What are you after, Ranger?”
“If I could, I'd like to have copies of your reports for my report to the insurance companies.”
“Why do they need a report? Isn't my investigation good enough for them? Didn't you already nose around in this?”
“It's procedure, Tom. There's a lot of money involved here and the companies require a report before they pay it out. It's routine. I can talk to Bill Gage I suppose and get them from him.”
Kosack could see how that would play already. Gage would want to know why Goodnight was bothering him for the reports, then he'd call Kosack's boss and raise hell. “No reason to go to any trouble. I think Ruth put together a set for you. Let me see if I can locate them.” Kosack rummaged through his partner's desk drawers. He handed a packet of papers eight inches thick to Goodnight. “That's the report, supplementals and the lab findings. If you think
you are missing anything give Ruth a call.”
Goodnight took the reports and hefted them in his hand. “That's a fair day's work.”
“Since we didn't find her body I suppose you plan to prove Leah Swensen's not dead, right? That way your companies don't have to pay, and you get to make us look like fools.” The words came out before he could stop them and Kosack was angry with himself.
“No, Tom. I'm just doing my job. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Goodnight left as quietly as he had entered. Kosack cursed once he was out of the room, sweeping a fallen balloon from off his desk with his forearm. Goddamn Andy Cluff anyway, he thought savagely.
~
A heat wave continued to hang over the city and it seemed that summer would never let go despite what the calendar said, but that evening was pleasant with a westerly breeze that tasted of sagebrush as Goodnight made himself comfortable on his patio. Morris meowed persistently for a time and rubbed himself repeatedly across Goodnight's leg. Conchita was at work. On the stereo he had placed a CD of Trio Los Panchos and the soft melodic harmony of the men sweetened the night air.
Goodnight arranged the police reports on the Swensen case into a chronological order though he knew that would only help him a little. The information the detectives gathered was not in time sequence so the story would jump all over. Goodnight wouldn't really understand what they had learned until he had read every report, but at least by placing them in chronology the evidence unfolded in the same order in which the detectives learned it.
It was slow going and Goodnight often had to back up and start a report over. Police officers were not noted for their ability to write coherently and the repetitive dry rote of police reports could be mind-numbing. Occasionally he jotted a detail down on his note pad. Among them he recorded the mileage for the Jaguar the night the police interviewed Swensen and the name of the service center, European Cars Unlimited, where Swensen had it detailed the day prior to the murder. He also made a note that Jack Swensen was right handed.
As it approached midnight Goodnight stretched, considered lighting another Panatella, but decided against it. He leaned down and picked up Morris, then placed him easily on his lap. He felt the cat tense and could see the ripples of muscles move under his fur along his back. As Goodnight gently stroked Morris the tom flexed his claws in and out, passing through his pants, stabbing into his skin. But for the first time he remained there until finally Goodnight lowered him gently to the patio.
Taken together the reports made an overwhelming circumstantial case for murder. It was all there and Goodnight could understand why the jury had so little difficulty reaching a verdict. That morning's newspaper had quoted one juror as saying it had been 12 zip for conviction five minutes into the jury room. They had decided to review the evidence in detail and take another vote just to be certain they had missed nothing and because a man's life was at stake.
Still, the case was unusual, there was no denying that. Battered wives usually bore marks of abuse. It was uncommon for one never to be seen without a bruise. Not unheard of, just uncommon. In most cases like this the police could find someone who had heard the murderer threaten his wife, but no one like that turned up. But there was something else weaving through the fabric of the reports, something intangible that nagged at him, but Goodnight couldn't put his finger on it.
He didn't dwell on it. He was only rarely a man in a hurry and the years had taught him that whatever it was would surface in time. It was too late for his usual Friday night routine but he decided to have a beer before walking Conchita home so after he was dressed he reconsidered his decision and lit a cigar on the front porch then headed to Rosa's Cantina, his step lighter than it had been in several years, the scent of sagebrush in the air reminding him of his youth.
~
The next afternoon Goodnight pushed the doorbell at Kathleen Ruman's house for the third time and listened to the distant chimes, but there was still no movement in the house. He recalled that he had attempted several times the previous spring to interview this woman with no luck. The curtains were drawn and the place appeared as abandoned as the Swensen house next door. Four days of newspapers were piled on the driveway and along the closed garage door was a layer of dust indicating any car hadn't been moved in weeks. He pushed the doorbell again.
There was an odd feeling about the posh house. The yard was well maintained and the structure in repair, but Goodnight could not shake the feeling of unease that the place invoked in him. He walked up the side of the house, peered over a wooden fence towards the rear patio and spotted a woman in a two piece suit laying in the sun. Even from this distance she looked in trouble. Her skin was baked an unhealthy bronze, her head was leaned unnaturally to the side and her right arm had fallen to the patio where the hand lay listlessly on the hot concrete.
“Hello!” he called out. No reaction. “Hello!!” Still nothing. She might have been dead.
The fence was old enough to be fragile, the wooden planks having baked in the harsh sun for some years. Goodnight grabbed the top of one of the boards and yanked. It popped off and clattered to the ground. He yanked on another which splintered in his hand, then another, then a fourth until the opening was large enough for him to squeeze through.
“Ma'am!” he called out as he approached the figure in the sun. “Ma'am!” he tried again when he was closer. Now he realized he had trouble for certain. He ran the last few feet and pulled the lawn chair into the shade. There was not the slightest trace of perspiration on the woman's skin which might just as easily have been aging leather. Her breathing was shallow and labored. He lifted an eyelid and the pupil was unnaturally dilated. When he touched her skin it felt like rotting flesh, cooked until the juice was gone.
Goodnight pulled the sliding door to the house behind him open then carried the woman in to lay her on the first couch he spotted. Inside the house was cold like a meat locker. As he laid her down her body began to tremble and her toes and fingers suddenly curled into blackened knots. He filled a pitcher of water at the sink and doused her with it, repeating the process twice more. The shaking stopped and she moaned a complaint but did not wake up. He picked up a week old section of newspaper and fanned her body, then punched 911, gave the address and said he had a victim of heatstroke.
Goodnight filled a tumbler with water, then shook the woman until she was partially conscious. “Here,” he ordered. “Drink.”
Ruman turned her head and moaned crankily like a child awakened in the night who just wants to go back to sleep.
“I said drink!” He tipped her head back and placed the glass to her lips, angling it so the water reached her lips. She began to suck in the water. He pulled the glass away. “Easy now. Not too much.” He waited, then held the glass to her lips and she drank some more. He placed the glass on the coffee table. “Wake up! Hey! Wake up!”
Kathleen Ruman's eyelids fluttered then opened. Her eyes rolled into place and the pupils became less contracted. “Wha'? Wha'?”
“Try some more water, ma'am.” He held the glass to her lips but suddenly she retched and threw up. Goodnight just managed to avoid being hit. Dry heaves racked Ruman's body as he held her. When finally they stopped he repeated the water routine.
“It'll take one of these times, ma'am, and I've got all day. Help's on the way.” Two minutes later she threw up again but the third attempt she held the water down.
Goodnight had seen heat dehydration twice before. Once on the range when an Anglo cowboy had sipped nothing but red eye whiskey all day despite the searing heat. They had packed him out astride his own horse. The second time had been when his ranger partner had collapsed as they searched the desert for a locked truck load of illegal aliens who had been abandoned in an Air Force gunnery range. The ambient temperature had broken 120 that afternoon and had been more than 170 on the desert floor. He had carried his partner five miles across the desert floor to help. In both cases the men with him nearly died.
“My
head hurts,” she whined. Her eyes fluttered again. “Who are you?” she asked as she held her second glass of water, taking a small sip every minute or so as he advised.
“John Goodnight, ma'am. I'm an insurance investigator. I saw you by your pool and you didn't look good.”
“I don't know...I was sick yesterday. I remember that. I was up early because I couldn't sleep. I was catching some sun. I was cold.”
“That was the heatstroke. You get a real sudden chill when you're actually overheating. When did you last have something to drink without alcohol in it?”
“You're kidding.”
“No, ma'am. Alcohol dehydrates real fast, especially if you're in the sun.”
She shook her head lightly. “I don't remember the last time.”
“Keep drinking the water.”
“I need a real drink. Would you be kind enough? There's some wine in the fridge.”
“No, you don't need it. In fact, ma'am, it's what killing you.”
Ruman gave him a dirty look. “What do you want?”
The doorbell rang and Goodnight let the paramedics into the house. He stood to the side as the young woman and man, equipment draped from their bodies like gladiators, rushed to the rear room and began working at once on Ruman. She complained a lot and told them this was silly.
The young woman, stout with an angular jaw, asked who he was. He told her then said, “I never met the lady before. I was just dropping by to talk and spotted her in the back yard.”
“It's fortunate you did. I doubt she'd have lasted another hour. She refused to go to the hospital. She needs an IV for fluid.”
“Is she in any danger?”
“Not now I don't think. Not if she stays out of the sun and drinks plenty of liquid.”
“I'll do what I can, but like I said, I don't know the lady.”
Half an hour later the paramedics packed their gear and prepared to leave. The woman paramedic approached him again. “She'll be O.K. if she rests and drinks water. Try to get her to go see her doctor. She also needs to be in AA. It takes a lot of liquor to get into this shape.”
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