“Are these your glasses?” Shindler asked, placing an envelope on the table. Esther picked up the envelope and took out the glasses.
“They look like them, but I can’t tell until I put them on.”
“Go ahead.”
Esther fit them on her nose. She picked up a True Confession from the sink and scanned a page.
“These are mine. Can I have them back?”
“I’m afraid not right now. They’re evidence.”
“Evidence for what?” Mrs. Taylor asked.
“Did you also lose a lighter and a comb, Esther?”
“Yes,” she answered hesitantly.
“Where did you find those?” Mrs. Taylor asked.
“The comb, the lighter and the glasses were found near the scene of the Walters murder. It is possible that the person who stole your daughter’s glasses was involved in the murder.”
“So she can’t get them back?”
“Not for a while.”
“Well, that’s fine. And how am I supposed to get her new ones?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”
“Damn it, Esther, this is your fault. You’re always losing things. Well, this time you don’t get new glasses till you pay for them.”
They left the house with Esther in tears. Shindler watched her intently: slumped in her chair, head buried in her slim brown arms, shoulders raked with sobs. He felt an icy contempt for her and something else he would not allow himself to name.
“She knows something,” Shindler said.
“That girl?” Marcus asked incredulously. “She doesn’t know a thing.”
“I can feel it, Harvey.”
“You want to feel it. Christ, Roy, she was more worried about being taken to juvenile detention for being under age and drinking then she was about being involved in a murder investigation.”
“I don’t buy the coincidence. Her stolen glasses just happen to turn up at the scene.”
“Now wait a minute. The glasses were found near, not at, the scene, down the hill and quite some way from where the car was located.”
“Right where someone who was running from the scene in a panic might drop it.”
Marcus shook his head.
“I’m afraid I’m not with you on this one, Roy. If you want to follow up on Esther Freemont, you do it on your own.”
The radio crackled and Shindler lifted the mike and gave their call letters. The radio dispatcher told them that they had found Elaine Murray.
They had been looking in the wrong places. The girl had never been in Portsmouth. There was an offshoot of the main highway that led to the coast. It was not heavily traveled, especially this time of year. Walter Haas and his wife, Susan, had been headed for their folks’ house in Sandy Cove when their car got a flat. Walter had pulled onto a shoulder and had gone out into a torrential downpour to change the tire. The ground was muddy and slippery and he had lost his balance, sending the jack handle over the embankment. He could see the body when he looked over the side. It looked to Shindler as if it had been tossed over the edge of the grassy downslope from the road like a sack of wheat.
The rain was making it difficult for everyone. There was no possibility of finding any tracks. The roadway would leave none and the shoulder was a miniature swamp.
Shindler half slid, half scrambled down the embankment. A small group of officers were beating the tall grass for evidence. Marcus had gone over to a large man dressed in a rain slicker and wide-brimmed hat. Shindler looked down at the body. Someone had had the decency to cover it with a blanket. He raised the corner and looked.
He almost retched. The head was almost denuded of tissue and the scalp had practically rotted away. He moved his eyes away from the face. She was wearing tan toreador slacks, but the zipper was undone, as if someone had put them on her. Her only other piece of clothing was a white blouse. It was unbuttoned and the left side had flapped over, revealing her left breast.
Shindler was churning inside. He could feel the adrenaline conquering the initial effects of the nausea. Then he saw her feet and he started to shake. He did not know why the fact that she was barefoot should affect him so. What could it matter? She was dead. But then the whole thing was illogical. How could two young people such as these be struck down at the beginning of their lives.
Shindler covered Elaine Murray and walked up the hill with the rain stinging him. He stood by his car and breathed deeply until he was in control. Then he joined Marcus.
“Roy, this is Larry Tenneck, Meridian County Sheriff’s Office.”
They shook hands.
“It’s a pity, ain’t it?” Tenneck said. “A young girl like that.”
“Any idea how long she’s been down there?”
“Not a one. This stretch of road isn’t heavily traveled in the winter. I don’t think she was killed here. Course with the rain and all you couldn’t really tell, but I figure she was just left here, because whoever killed her figured she wouldn’t be found for a while.”
“You’re probably right,” Marcus agreed. “The autopsy should tell us a few things.”
“Speaking of autopsies, can we move her now? I told the boys to leave her till you got here, but I think it would be better to have her taken out of the rain.”
“Of course. You took pictures?”
Tenneck nodded and signaled to two men who were smoking in the front seat of an ambulance that was parked alongside the road. One man nodded and flicked a cigarette out of the ambulance window. Tenneck shook his head.
“I wish they wouldn’t do that. We have enough trouble as it is with littering. You boys’ll want to see the clothes, I guess.”
“Clothes?” Shindler asked.
“Oh, yeah. We found the rest of her clothes. Deputy found them over in that grass about a hundred yards from the body. I guess they dumped her, then threw the rest of her stuff over the side.”
Tenneck reached into the back seat of his car and pulled out a plastic sack. Harvey opened the rear door and sat inside. Shindler sat next to him and Tenneck leaned in through the window, oblivious to the rain. There was a red and black ski sweater, a torn brassiere and a pair of panties in the bag. The panties were torn in several places and Roy realized that they had actually been torn in two at one point near the right hip.
“We better have Beauchamp check for signs of rape,” Marcus said in a low, hard voice.
“That’s the first thing I thought of when I seen them,” Tenneck said. For the first time since they had talked with him, Shindler noticed that he had lost his country calm.
“You do me a favor, will ya. You get these boys and get them good.”
Dr. Francis R. Beauchamp, like Roy Shindler, was a man of odd proportions. There, however, the similarities ceased. Where Shindler was tall and thin, with a small head and bulbous nose and overlong arms connected to oversize hands, Beauchamp was short and squat and possessed of a large melon-sized head that overbalanced his entire body, giving the impression that a quick, downward nod would pitch him forward. His tiny hands were heavily veined and his imperfect eyesight was aided by tortoiseshell glasses that perched on a thin, delicately shaped nose.
Shindler and Marcus were seated in the waiting room of the Heavenly Rest Funeral Parlor in Perryville, Meridian County’s county seat. Shindler had smoked all the cigarettes in his pack and was debating with himself the pros and cons of braving the elements in search of pie and coffee when the door opened and Beauchamp flopped onto a couch upholstered in a peach-colored material upon which fluttered flocks of smiling cherubim.
“Strangulation,” he said. He looked tired. They had called him from the Sheriff’s office and made him drive out in the night. “Probably done with the cord that was found stuffed into the waistband of her slacks.”
“How long has she been dead?”
Beauchamp pursed his lips.
“I’ll say four to six weeks.”
“The body didn’t look that bad, except for the head,” Marcus
said.
“It’s the weather. Gets cold out here. Cold retards the deterioration. Say, can I get a cup of coffee and some food? I’m really beat.”
He looked tired, Shindler thought. We’re all tired.
“On me. Grab your coat and I’ll stake you at the first hamburger joint we find.”
“Last of the big spenders. You bastards owe me more than hamburger for this job.”
“Was there anything else?” Shindler asked. They all knew what he meant.
“Yes. Poor thing.”
Beauchamp sighed and removed his glasses. He closed his eyes and rubbed the eyelids with his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger.
“There were hemorrhages on the front and back surfaces of the uterus. In my opinion they could have been caused by a blow to the lower abdomen or by vigorous intercourse. If it was intercourse, she would have had to have been unusually active.
“I also found morphologically identifiable sperm in the vagina.”
“What is that? Morphologically identifiable.”
“It means that I could tell it was sperm. It was dead, but it was there.”
“And what does all that mean?” Shindler wanted to know.
“It means that I think that more than one man had her shortly before she died and it means that I think they had her over and over again. Then they killed her. That’s an unscientific opinion, so don’t hold me to it. But, then, I’m not feeling too scientific tonight. Dr. Harold Murray is a good friend of mine and I have been thinking of how lucky I am that I don’t have to be the one who tells him what happened to his daughter.”
4
It was April and Shindler was the only detective still working on the Murray-Walters case. The problem was that there was nothing to work on. The general consensus was that the couple had been murdered by persons unknown, for reasons unknown, which would remain unknown. Shindler did not buy that. He would not. He thought about the thirty dollars in Richie’s wallet and the expensive camera on the back seat. Anybody cool enough to put Richie’s body in the car would have been cool enough to take the money and the camera, if the motive had been robbery. There had to have been some other motive and if there was a motive it was created by something that happened prior to the killings.
So Shindler was searching for motive and finding none. He had compiled a list of everyone who knew the couple and from each interviewee he was learning that no one could possibly have wanted Elaine Murray or Richie Walters dead.
Alice Fay was one of the prettiest girls on the list and Shindler was grateful for some stimulation after the dull morning he had spent. It was Easter recess, so she was home from school. Her father was working and her mother was shopping. She would not open the door until Shindler displayed his badge. When he told her that he was investigating the deaths of her two schoolmates, she said, “Oh” softly and let him in.
He chatted about the weather and school vacation as he followed her down the hall into the kitchen. She had been seated at the kitchen table reading Seventeen. The magazine was turned to an article on fall campus fashions. She motioned Shindler into a chair.
“You’re going to college next fall?” he asked.
“The University of Wisconsin.”
“What do you want to study?”
Alice smiled and shrugged.
“I really don’t know. I might go into nursing, but right now I’ll just take liberal arts and then decide after I have some time to think.”
“That’s a good way to do it. You have plenty of time to be serious when you get old like me.”
Alice laughed.
“You aren’t that old.”
“I get older every day.”
He smiled at her and she asked him if she could get him some coffee.
“Do you think you will catch the people who murdered Richie and Elaine?” she asked as she turned on the light under the coffee pot.
“I don’t know. We haven’t made much progress. That’s why I am talking to everyone who knew them. Anything that you can think of that might be of help would be appreciated.”
Alice sat down again. She appeared to be smart as well as good looking, Shindler thought. She would be a good catch for some lucky man.
“I would help if I could, but I honestly can’t think of a thing to tell you. I knew them both real well and they were both so nice. Richie was so gentle. He really cared about people. He won all these honors in sports and he was involved in school politics, but it never went to his head.
“Elaine was like Richie. I remember in our junior year we both ran for prom queen. I know Elaine wanted very much to win, but I was named queen. She was so happy for me, even though she was disappointed for herself.”
The coffee was ready and she went to the sink and poured Shindler a cup.
“Do you know a girl named Esther Freemont?” Shindler asked. Alice looked surprised.
“Yes, I do. Is Esther…? She isn’t involved, is she?”
“No. I just wanted to know if you knew her.”
“Well, I know her in the sense that we go to the same school, but she isn’t a friend,” Alice said with a hint of distaste.
“What’s Esther like?”
“I…I really don’t know. She isn’t too bright. She hangs around with a wild crowd.”
“The Cobras?” Shindler interrupted. Alice nodded.
“She…I hear that she’s, uh, free. If you know what I mean,” Alice said blushing. “But I really don’t know her that well,” she added hastily.
Shindler changed the subject and they discussed Richie and Elaine some more. The time passed quickly and Shindler realized that it was getting late. He made a mental note to leave the interviewing of pretty girls to detectives with more self-control.
“Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, Miss Fay,” Shindler said, rising. “If you think of anything that you think might help give me a call.”
He handed her his card and she placed it by the kitchen phone.
“You know, that’s funny,” she said as she turned. “I just remembered that Esther Freemont was at the party I threw the evening that Richie and Elaine were killed.”
Shindler stopped.
“I thought you said that she wasn’t a close friend.”
“She’s not. She crashed. She and the Coolidge brothers and someone else. I remember because of the fight.”
“What fight?”
“It was pretty frightening. Tommy, my boyfriend, got mad because they had crashed. He tried to throw Billy Coolidge out and there was a fight. Billy had a knife. We were lucky that no one was hurt seriously.”
“What kind of knife?”
“It was a switchblade, I think. One of Tommy’s brother’s friends hit him and he pulled it out. We stopped it after that.”
“You mentioned a brother.”
“Bobby Coolidge. He was fighting too.”
“Why do you think they came to the party if they weren’t invited?”
“I don’t know. To cause trouble probably. Billy always has a chip on his shoulder. His brother isn’t as bad, but I really don’t like either of them.”
“Do you remember when they left the party?”
“Not really. I know it was dark and…No, wait. I do too know. Tommy got knocked down and he smashed his watch and broke it. I remember we all talked about it, because it was a new watch and he had gotten it as a birthday present. He was very angry. Anyway, the watch stopped at ten-twenty.”
Shindler thought that over. There had been a police report of an interview with some boys who had seen Elaine and Richie when they left the show. The movies had let out at about eleven-fifteen. If Esther and her friends had driven downtown after stealing the wine, they would be in the downtown area near eleven-thirty. It was possible.
“Thank you for the help, Miss Fay. Would you do me a favor and write down what you just told me and mail it to my office?”
“Certainly. Do you think it’s important?”
“I don’t know,
but it could be.”
George DeBlasio had been a juvenile counselor for fifteen years. He first met Roy Shindler when Shindler was a patrolman. He had seen Shindler often during his first few years on the force and less often after he had become a detective, but the two got together for coffee whenever Shindler was in the neighborhood of the juvenile center, which housed juvenile detention, the juvenile court and the counselors’ offices.
DeBlasio was in his early fifties. His hair was snow white and thinning and he had a narrow, angular face. His office was one of several identical cubicles that lined a long hallway set aside for the counselors. He sat on one side of a government-issue metal desk and Shindler sat on the other. The door was locked and DeBlasio addressed Shindler in conspiratorial undertones as he slid two folders across the desk to him.
“You know, I shouldn’t be doing this. These files are supposed to be sealed.”
“I appreciate it, George, and I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.”
George grunted and leaned back as Shindler read through the files.
“You know, I was their counselor for a while.”
“The Coolidges?” Shindler asked, looking up.
“For a year before they turned eighteen. Billy was a rough customer. I took an active dislike to him.”
“Why was that?”
“There was just something about him. The other one, Bobby, was more human. I guess that was it. Billy was a cold fish. No moral setup. He operated on pleasure-pain principles. If it hurt him, it was bad. If it felt good, it was good.
“I think the first time I worked with him was when he was brought in for a rampage at school. He beat up three kids in the course of one morning. Really brutal stuff. He had been drinking and the judge just gave him a talking to and let him go, because no one was seriously hurt, but that was no thanks to Billy.
“Anyway, I was assigned as counselor, but I couldn’t reach him. He showed no remorse. The only emotional reaction was his anger at the boys for telling on him.”
Heartstone Page 7
