Wrath in the Blood

by Ronald Watkins

  Goodnight thanked them. Back in the rear room with Ruman he said, “If you feel up to it I'd suggest a cool shower, drink lots more water but slowly, and, unless you're in a hurry to die, I'd skip the liquor for now. Do you want me to call anyone, or do you think you can manage?”

  She stood up, only swayed once. “I think I can do this alone. Anyway,” she looked at him ruefully, “there's no one to call.”

  ~

  Kathleen Ruman was back in 20 minutes with no obvious signs of the distress she had suffered. She was neatly dressed in beige shorts and a white blouse. She'd applied some lipstick. At the sink she prepared a large glass of water then paused when she opened the freezer. “How about ice?”

  “Maybe one or two cubes. You don't want the water to be too cold.” While she had been gone Goodnight had cleaned up with towels he had located in a closet. He had spread two on the couch over the wettest areas.

  She plopped two cubes into the tumbler then took a seat in an overstuffed chair. “Thank you,” she said. Her eyes avoided making contact with him.

  He had a clearer view of her now. She was slender with a hint of fragility. Her long dark hair was pulled back and held in place by a white headband. Her pretty features were as regular as if they had been cut by a die. Once, he realized, she had been a remarkable beauty. “No problem, ma'am. I'm just glad I was here. I think I made a bit of a mess with your couch.”

  Ruman waved that off with a delicate gesture then placed her hands clasped on her lap like a Catholic school girl. “Would I have died?” she asked after a moment. Her tight-lipped mouth moved in jerks.

  “It's possible, ma'am. The paramedics didn't think you'd have lasted another hour. Probably less. You should go see a doctor today, just to be certain you're all right. I would be pleased to drive you if you don't think you can manage.”

  “I feel weak and nauseous, but otherwise O.K. You said something about being an insurance investigator. Why are you here?”

  “It's about your neighbors, the Swensens. Whenever such a large amount of money is involved the insurance companies require that someone like me conduct an investigation into the circumstances of the death. Are you sure you want to do this now? I can come back.”

  “Let's talk. I've got nothing else to do. And I feel better having you here.”

  “All right. You knew Leah Swensen?”

  Ruman shook her head slowly as if she had a headache. “Hardly at all. The neighbors here stick pretty much to themselves. We waved across the wall a number of times. She told me to stop sunbathing once I remember. It's a bit late for that, don't you think?”

  “What were your impressions of her? The police reports are, understandably, pretty sketchy about the victim.”

  “I didn't think much about her, one way or the other. She was a bit overweight, had dark hair and wore glasses. She was a pretty woman who just didn't do much with herself.” Ruman shrugged.

  “She told you once that she was afraid her husband was plotting with someone at his office to kill her.”

  “Yes, I remember that. That's why they made me testify at the trial. I still don't recall when it was exactly. Everyone seemed to think that was so important.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Sunbathing.”

  “So it was probably after winter. I recall this one was colder than usual.”

  “Yes, that's right. I guess I'd put it between late February and perhaps a few weeks before she was killed. Sorry.”

  “To the best of your recollection what did she say?”

  “She came up to the wall and called out to me so I went over to talk to her. She appeared agitated, perhaps even on the verge of tears. She rambled a bit, saying she was worried about her marriage, then out of the blue said that her husband was having an affair. She said she was very upset about it. I sympathized, wondering frankly why she was talking to me about it, when she added that she was afraid of her husband, and was fearful he and someone at work was planning to kill her.”

  “Did she name anyone?” Ruman shook her head and took a sip of water. “Did what she say shock you?” he asked.

  “No. That's the part no one has ever asked me about. Not the detectives or the attorneys at the trial. I remember I started to testify about it but I was interrupted and...” Her voice trailed off.

  “I'm not following you.”

  Ruman looked him directly in the eye for the first time. “It didn't shock me because I didn't believe her. I thought she was making it up.”

  SIXTEEN

  Conchita had taken the night off and the house was filled with the rich aroma of chopped onions, sweet yellow cheese, and frying corn tortillas as Goodnight entered. He removed his hat, coat and gun, then washed up before joining her in the kitchen. She was humming to herself and suddenly lit up when she spotted him. “Hey! You're home!” She ran over, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly.

  Later, in bed, after dinner and loving, Goodnight listened to the soft rhythm of her breathing, his hand resting casually on her hip, the tips of his fingers playing on the velvet richness of her skin. It seemed to him that life with Conchita was one comprised entirely of sensation. The texture, taste and aroma of fine food, absorbing her animation as she spoke, the sensuality of lovemaking. He had forgotten there were so many senses, or that they could be so intoxicating.

  Until Conchita had come to live with him he had not realized how lonely he had been. First there had been the loss of Flo, sudden and utterly devastating. He had sat in the hospital room with her those horrible final days and watched the life leave her body an hour at a time. Despite her pain she had been brave for him and looking back it seemed as if they had been acting parts in a play. What he had wanted was to grab Death by the scruff of its neck and smash Its face into the wall, to stick his pistol barrel into its existence and blast it from the Earth. But this had been one time when there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do, but smile, hold Flo's hand and await the inevitable.

  Her passing had been followed with the death of his son not quite four years later. A uniformed Army major arrived at Ranger headquarters to hand him the Pentagon message personally. He had born the elaborate military funeral because of the mood of the times and out of respect for his son, but all he could really recall was the voice of his father telling him his older brother was dead and that war was a terrible, senseless waste. Not many months later Goodnight had been forced to bear the ignominy of forced retirement from the Rangers.

  It had come as a surprise, but not entirely. The congenial Ober had been replaced as director by Oran Love, retired deputy chief of police of Phoenix. The division he supervised for 12 years was known as “the Kremlin” because of the vicious backbiting that characterized his management style. Goodnight knew there was no love lost between the two of them since Love made it clear from the first that he didn't approve of cops who investigated other cops. At home in his easy chair Goodnight had looked through his notes from the Cluff investigation and sure enough, there was Oran Love's name as one he had elected not to name in his official report, but a cop he had been certain was dirty.

  Still, Goodnight had reasoned the two of them could work together but he had been wrong. Love brought aboard a retired state police lieutenant, Oscar Plenty, a heavy drinking, back slapping, good old boy, with hard hazel eyes that never smiled despite his frequent jokes. Soon enough Plenty was named head of a major crimes strike force with nearly half the rangers reporting to him and Plenty reporting directly to his buddy, Love.

  For months the press had been running recurring stories concerning the governor's former campaign manager, now special assistant to the governor, a coarse newcomer to Arizona named Roger Thomas with an ambiguous past and ties to several companies who did business with the state. Goodnight received a referral that the governor's aid had rigged the bidding for a state contract, fixing it so that some of his cronies received the lucrative contract. There were a half dozen other accusations of irregularity
as well.

  Goodnight briefed Love on the matter at their weekly head to head, now attended by Plenty.

  “What do you think?” Love asked Plenty in a way that fed him his answer.

  “I say we pass.” Plenty was clearly amused.

  “So that's it, Ranger,” Love said. “We pass.”

  “You're the boss, Oran, but do you think that's wise?”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” Plenty demanded.

  “Word's bound to get out that the Rangers backed off. I know the governor appointed you but Thomas is getting to be a headache as it is. He'll be leaving government soon enough and if we handle it you can tell the governor you minimized the harm to his administration. You can't get away with just sitting on something like this. Not this day and age. Too many people already know about what Thomas is up to.”

  “What's that? A threat, Goodnight?” Plenty said leaning forward in his chair. “You saying you're taking this to the press if you don't get to play it your way?”

  “Not at all. I'm just trying to point out...”

  “Leave the files here, Ranger,” Love ordered. “I'll have Oscar take a look at them.”

  Six weeks later no investigation was underway and Goodnight turned 65 years of age, mandatory retirement. The director could sign a waiver which would allow Goodnight to work until age 70, at which point an annual waiver was required. Instead of the waiver Goodnight got a farewell party and an elaborate silver encrusted turquoise bolo tie. God he hated bolo ties.

  Three months later the United States Attorney indicted Thomas and the newspaper ran an editorial asking why the state couldn't clean up its own mess. Word the Rangers had sat on the case leaked, just as Goodnight predicted, but Love survived, though just barely. Plenty was now captain of the Rangers and sat in Goodnight's old office.

  It hurt, there was no denying that. Still, Goodnight had come to accept the end of his career as a state ranger. He had learned to enjoy his work as an insurance investigator even if it generally lacked the excitement of the old days.

  Yet with each act his final years had turned into greater loneliness. He had struggled to come to terms with the reality that the Goodnight line would end with him. There was no son, no one to carry on. The finality of it, the certainty that even that small measure of immortality had been denied him lingered in the back of his mind during the dark hours.

  Goodnight had at last come to accept his lot, to adjust, to adapt, even take some pleasure in his monastic final years. But Conchita's presence had stripped his existence of all charade and revealed the stark, emotionless life he had been living. Before Conchita he had thought that his life was finished, all that had remained was the marking of the time. Now he arose each morning eager for the day and could no longer imagine a single hour without her.

  ~

  The newspaper was calling the case the “Frogman Murder” and neither Morrison nor Kosack was amused. The body, at least the parts they had, were spotted in a dumpster, the head lying face up, the two legs extended down from it. No arms, no torso. Morrison had grudgingly admitted the effect was a bit like a frog, but “Frogman” for God's sake! Not for the first time did she wonder why in the world reporters had to give a name to every sensational homicide.

  “I think his boy did it,” Kosack said, his feet resting on his desk filled once again to overflow. His summer diet had taken and he hadn't been this slim in years.

  “Of course his son did it,” Morrison answered. “He's already hired a lawyer and he inherits the business. He's got two arrests for assault and I think his old lady is lying through her teeth about him being with her. Any luck with the torso or arms?”

  “Naw. I think he fed them to his dogs.”

  “That's disgusting.”

  “Murder's disgusting. Did you get a look at the size of those mutts? Red meat eaters if I've ever seen any. You should have seen the way they eyed you when your back was turned.”

  Morrison stopped her pen mid-word. “Tell me, Tom. Do you lay awake nights thinking this stuff up or does it just pop into your beady little brain?”

  Kosack grinned. “Natural talent. Shear God given ability. Aren't you envious?”

  Morrison turned momentarily to the report she was writing then looked up. “I've been thinking, Tom.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Next time out we get a whole body. It only stands to reason. No body at all with Leah Swensen, now all we've got is a head and two legs. Next time we get a whole body, and it will be a pleasant change of pace.”

  Kosack grunted, then slapped his thinning stomach. “What do you say?”

  “I'm not coming to your shabby little apartment and fix dinner. Anyway, I'd only fatten you up again and just when you're starting to look pretty good – for a middle aged cop.” Morrison smiled winningly at him, then raised her head. “Hello, Ranger.”

  “Ma'am, Tom.” Goodnight tipped his hat then ambled across the squad room.

  “Enough with the 'Ma'am' talk, O.K.? My name's Ruth. Please. My mother is 'ma'am.'”

  Goodnight smiled easily. “Ruth it is.”

  “Now what do you need?” Kosack asked, no longer relaxed or joking. “The report's not good enough?” Morrison gave him a sharp look.

  “The reports are just fine.” Goodnight hooked the leg of a chair and pulled it over, took a seat and removed his hat which he rested on his lap. “I thought perhaps we could just kick the case around a bit.”

  “What are you after, Ranger?” Kosack demanded. “The investigation is over, so's the trial. We won. The bad guy is in jail and tomorrow he's going to get the death penalty. That's it. Case closed.”

  “There's always things you learn that don't make it into the reports. I was hoping you'd tell me about those. I doubt they'll mean much but...”

  “But what?” Morrison asked.

  “I'm not sure.”

  “Well, I'm sure,” Kosack snapped. “You're just sucking around trying to make us look bad! You like nothing more than to get cops, don't you? There's guys like that. We've got them here in IA. It's written all over you. Well, you're getting nothing from us. Jack Swensen murdered his wife. The jury said so. Now fuck off!! And quit coming around here!!”

  “Tom!” Morrison said looking shocked.

  Goodnight said nothing, just gazed at Kosack steadily for what seemed several minutes but was no more than a few seconds. “Just what was it Andy wanted you to do that gets you so riled up, Tom? What was it you refused to do that caused you to ask for another partner? It never came up in my investigation but I always wondered.”

  “Fuck you!!” Kosack shouted as he stormed from the room.

  Morrison was stunned. “I... I don't know what to say.”

  “You don't have to say a thing. Tom's a good man, and a good cop. Andy Cluff tried to recruit him into dirt and Tom refused to go along. Andy's style was to have his rookies do little innocent things as he sucked them in a bit at a time. Tom wouldn't go along. That says he's got a lot of character. He just has this all-cops-are-brothers attitude real bad, and it seems he liked Cluff a lot despite his faults.”

  “We don't all feel like that. There's plenty of us grateful for what you did.”

  Goodnight smiled ruefully. “You'd never know it from where I sit. You want to talk about the Swensen case?”

  “Sure.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  Morrison shrugged lightly. “Pretty good. It's a solid circumstantial case and I prefer good police work to a shaky confession any day, though confessions are nice too. It was a good investigation with no more loose ends than most. Better than a lot I could name if the truth were known.”

  Morrison had dropped perhaps 10 pounds since Goodnight had last seen her and he thought she was becoming quite a handsome woman. “Are you satisfied Jodi Iverson wasn't involved?”

  “No. She could have been. She's got no alibi for that Sunday night or Monday morning.”

  “Maybe she killed the Swensen lady that morni
ng before going to work.”

  “We ran that down. The time doesn't work out. And Jack lied too much for an innocent man. We decided Iverson isn't involved. Maybe she helped ditch the body or something like that, but we've got no proof. Just suspicion.”

  Goodnight reviewed the DNA results with Morrison, the hair analysis and Swensen's statement to the officers before finally rising to go. Nothing struck a chord with him. “You've been kind to take so many questions from me.”

  “This isn't routine, Ranger. What's up?”

  “I don't know yet. Maybe nothing.

  “I've got something you can take.” Morrison dug in the top drawer of her desk for a minute, pushing things around, digging deep, then extracted a photograph he recognized as being Leah Swensen. “This is her with her cat. You can have it if you like. It was never part of the official record.”

  “Thank you.” Goodnight glanced at the photograph then slipped the photograph into his pocket. “Did you ever find a cat?”

  “No. I guess it ran off.”

  “Anything else you can think of? Something that didn't go into a report because it wasn't important.”

  “No, nothing that comes to mind. Unless you mean a crank call.”

  “What was that?”

  “Just before we went to the grand jury I got a call from a woman. Late twenties, early thirties, probably white. She said she'd known Leah Dahl a long time ago. She said we better have an airtight case because the Leah she knew was quite capable of setting her husband up.”

  “You had other calls.”

  “Always in a case like that. This one was different somehow so I went back over the investigation step by step. I have no idea who she was but the call had me going for a while. She knew details about Leah that hadn't been in the newspaper and sure sounded like she knew what she was talking about.”