by Packer, Vin
SHE WORE NOTHING
UNDER THE MINK COAT.
She was naked … and young … and dead.
* * *
A MURDER BEGINS AND ENDS this story of scandal and tragedy in a college town. You’ll meet some memorable characters here—most of them hair-raising—as novelist Vin Packer spins out a sinister excursion with the cool, campy kids of Far Point College, New York.
It’s a wild, wild joyride—from Thunder-bird to Bluebird, from classroom to Cheetah, with stops on the way at rent-by-the-hour motel rooms. You’ll watch in horror as the Pucci-Plantagenet crowd burns up the roads, heading for that sickening, inevitable crash … that jolting confrontation with the reality they can’t escape … with
THE HARE IN MARCH.
The Hare in March
Vin Packer
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Cntents
Cover
Title Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Also Available
Copyright
One
At ten o’clock that warm March night, the Far Point, New York, prowl car turned into Grandview Park. Patrolman Burroughs yawned and tried to find a more comfortable position on the seat. He said, “Hey, Hopkins, it’s a little early for a stroll down lovers’ lane. There won’t be anything doing here for another hour.”
His partner said, “I feel generous tonight.”
“I know what you mean. They’re better off coming here to do a little necking than going into the city to booze it up.”
“You’re a square, you know that, Burroughs? The kids don’t say ‘necking’ anymore. The expression is ‘making out.’ “
“Oh, yeah? I was sure it was ‘spooning.’ ”
“My kid is always talking about making out. In my day, that meant going all the way. Only we didn’t say we made out with a girl, we said we made a girl.”
“You, Hopkins? You made girls? I bet you had to put bags over their heads first.”
Hopkins chuckled. “What’d you do, Burroughs, date girls from the blind school? Did any of them get a look at you?”
They had been riding together for four years. Both of them were veterans, with over ten years in the department. They had a lot of other things in common too. In Far Point they lived within walking distance of one another; they were men in their middle forties, who had seen action in World War II. Burroughs had a nineteen-year-old son, and Hopkins had two boys under ten, and one fourteen-year-old. Far Point was in Rockland County, on the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge. Except for the war years, neither man had spent much time out of this part of the country.
It was against the law to stop in Grandview Park after seven at night. The local people knew that the winding road was a shortcut to Far Point from Route 9W, and there was no law forbidding traffic to pass through. Not more than twenty or thirty drivers a night used the shortcut; the others who turned into the park were usually headed for one of the little dead-end side roads, where picnickers stopped during the day. Most of them were students from Far Point College, a medium-sized, coeducational college located just outside the city, on a hill overlooking the Hudson River.
There were some Far Pointers who complained bitterly about these young strangers in their midst. They felt the college was too progressive: the students were allowed to have cars, and while there was a rule prohibiting intoxication, there was none prohibiting drinking. The local tavern owners were in sympathy with the complainers. There were not more than six bars near Far Point, all of them noisy with television and pinball machines, for Far Point was basically a factory town; none of the six would serve students. They argued that they did not want the responsibility — there were too many students with falsified credentials boosting their age; then too, kids could not hold their liquor. They were rowdy inside, and a menace on the road outside…. The truth was somewhere in between these facts, and the fact that the bars’ best customers were workers from the Far Point Bag Company, and F.P.B.ers were notorious enemies of F.P.C.ers.
But the majority of Far Point’s populace lived on the outskirts of the city. They were commuters to New York City. They were media people, lawyers, doctors, brokers — people of a sophisticated disposition. While they usually chose Ivy League schools for their own children, they enjoyed having F.P.C. in the community; they felt that the college added color to an otherwise dreary little area, whose prime feature was its proximity to Manhattan.
Burroughs and Hopkins were for the college, too. Burroughs’ boy was a sophomore there; it looked as though Hopkins’ oldest would not be admitted when he was college age, for his grades were only average, and the school demanded better of “townies.” But there were two more at home; Hopkins would be delighted if even one of his boys made it.
Years of dealing with F.P.C.ers had shown them to be no different from any other group of young people, despite the fact most of them were brighter than local kids, and carried more pocket money. The majority were better drivers than most Far Pointers, and as for the drinking, the patrolmen had brought in many more factory workers on a 390, than collegians.
Still, there was reason for concern. The state of New Jersey’s legal drinking age was twenty-one; New York’s was eighteen. Most of the land on this side of the George Washington Bridge was in New Jersey. The narrow part that was New York, was cut up into little towns like Far Point, which were either hostile to the students or too seedy to attract them. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights they took off in their cars, bound for the other side of the bridge. Having made that much effort to be served alcohol, they often drank too much, and the liquor began catching up with them during their journeys back, along the Palisades Parkway. The situation was not crucial, but every month three or four students were stopped and warned, and sometimes charged.
This was the reason the police were not always meticulous about enforcing the law against after-dark parking in Grandview. The young people were safer going there. The police would make their patrol early in the evening, before the kids got there, or they would simply cruise very slowly by the parked cars, and flash their spotlight at the embracing couples. A few less stalwart ones would take the beam of light as a notice to evacuate, but most knew that it was merely a we’ve-got-our-eye-on-you warning, and they limited their action to the front seats, and refrained from tossing their beer cans out onto park property.
• • •
Burroughs looked out at the philodendron bushes which banked the road, and yawned again. “I don’t envy these kids any. When I was their age, we had a real war, and a real excuse to speed up things in the romance department.”
“I may never see you again, baby, and I love you so much, too.”
Burroughs laughed. “Yeah.” He sang, “’Oh give me something to remember you by, when I am far away from you.’ “ “How about ‘You’d be so nice to come home to, you’d be
so nice by the fire; you’d be so nice, you’d be par-a-dise, to come home to and love.’ That was Helen’s and my song.”
“And she married you after she heard you sing it? What’d you do, dope her?”
Hopkins sighed. “Those were the days!”
“The songs the kids sing today — I don’t envy them.”
“Me neither,” Hopkins said. “My fourteen-year-old sits around singing this garbage about these footsteps running through an open meadow. What does it say? You kno
w what the name of the band is, that the college hired for the Rabbit Hop tomorrow night? The Freaks. How do you like that?”
“What footsteps running through a meadow?” “It’s a song. It goes: ‘If the sleep has left your ears you might hear footsteps running through an open meadow.’ “ “You pulling my leg, Hopkins?”
“That’s the way the song goes. Then it says not to be shook up if you hear these footsteps on the meadow, because it’s only some guy chasing butterflies of love.”
“And I suppose a bunch of long-haired pansies are singing it?”
“Listen, my kid’s trying to grow his hair. I tell Helen if his hair gets — “
Burroughs interrupted. “What’s that?”
Hopkins slowed up. “It looks like a car on the wrong side of the road. It’s just sitting there.”
“Yeah. Anybody inside?”
They pulled closer. Hopkins fixed his searchlight on the car.
“Someone’s behind the wheel,” said Burroughs. “He’s got someone with him, too.”
Hopkins drew alongside the car. It was a 1957 Thunder-bird. Hopkins recognized the year and the model right away. He was a car buff, and this was the classic Thunderbird, the two-seater with the round windows.
Neither man made a move to get out of the prowl car; there was seldom any occasion for it in the park. Usually it just took a word or two. Hopkins rolled down his window and called out, “Hey!”
The young man behind the wheel of the Thunderbird stared straight ahead, without acknowledging Hopkins’ or Burroughs’ presence. A girl with long blond hair spilling to her shoulders was leaning against the young man’s chest.
Hopkins yelled again, “Hey!”
“Too much in love to say good night,” said Burroughs. “I suppose I better get out.” “Check his license.”
They rarely bothered with the procedure, but Hopkins had a funny feeling that the young man was stone drunk. He sat there like a stone, even when Burroughs went over and rapped on the window.
Burroughs said, “Come on, kid! Roll her down!”
Finally, the young man gazed up at Burroughs and very slowly unrolled his window.
“You asleep with your eyes open?” said Hopkins.
Burroughs said, “Let me see your license.”
The boy didn’t say anything. He wore a sports coat and a tie; he was a good-looking youngster, eighteen or nineteen, with a pleasant expression on his face. He was not smiling, but he did not have a sullen look either. He seemed quiet and cooperative, and not too surprised at the intrusion; certainly not frightened by it.
As he fumbled for his wallet, Burroughs said, “Do you know you’re parked on the wrong side of the road?”
“Yes.”
“How’d you get on the wrong side of the road?” “I’m sorry.”
“Have you been drinking?” “I just had two drinks.” “You wouldn’t kid me?” “Just two.”
“Then what the hell are you doing on the wrong side of the road?”
“The car stopped. I started it, and it stopped.”
“Why didn’t you go for help?”
“Where?”
“Go for help? Go into Far Point? Did you plan to sit here all night?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wake up your girl friend.”
“She’s very tired.”
“Has she been drinking too?”
“Neither of us had more than two. I’m sure of that.” “Why are you having such trouble talking then?” “I’m not.”
“It takes you a long time to say anything. Why is that?” “I don’t know for sure. But I can’t find my wallet.” “Have you been driving without a license?”
“She was driving. Then I tried, and the car stopped.” Burroughs turned to Hopkins. “No license.” “I heard.”
Hopkins had the same reluctance Burroughs had about making an arrest…. Still, no license, the wrong side of the road…. Hopkins said, “Tell him to get out of the car and walk in front of my headlights. See if he walks straight.”
“Do it,” Burroughs ordered the young man.
Gently, the boy eased the girl back so that her head rested against the seat, and her body leaned into it. She did not wake up. She was wearing a mink coat, a double-breasted sports style, with a belt in back. There was a blue chiffon scarf tied around her neck.
“Won’t the car start?” Burroughs asked the boy, as the boy got out.
“Well, it did. Then it stopped.”
“Walk!” Burroughs ordered.
The boy seemed to move in slow motion.
Hopkins said, “Ask him what his name is, if he goes to F.P.C.”
Instead, Burroughs said, “Okay, son, let’s go to the station.” Burroughs turned to Hopkins. “He’s got a lump on his head, and he’s barefoot.” “What?”
“He’s barefoot. He’s got a lump on his head the size of an egg.”
Burroughs turned back to the boy, who stood there in the shine of the spotlight, holding his sports coat to his neck. “Come on, son. You’ve got yourself a snootful, haven’t you? Did you fall?”
“I don’t know why I took my shoes off. I’m not drunk.”
“You’re not some nut from Rockland State, are you?”
“No.”
“Okay. You’re not loose from the funny farm, so you have to be drunk, don’t you? Or do you always go around like this?”
“It’s just tonight.”
“I see. Well, I wouldn’t take you in any other night, son. Just tonight. Now c’mon. I have a car waiting for us.”
“Her car goes,” said the boy, walking very slowly toward Burroughs.
“We’ll take my car,” Burroughs said. “See? I got me a nice chauffeur named Hopkins, so leave the driving to us.”
“All right.”
“Do your feet hurt? Something wrong with your feet?” “No.”
“Then move, buddy. The pavement’s nice and smooth.”
The boy inched toward the prowl car.
Hopkins got out and went across to him. He said, “Are you glued together, or what?” He took the boy’s arm, to help him.
The boy smiled. “I feel as though I’m coming unglued.”
“Where’ve you been, boy?”
“At the house. I think I was, earlier.”
“The house? Do you mean a fraternity house?”
“Yes.”
Burroughs opened the door of the Thunderbird. He called in, “Wake up, little Suzy.”
“She won’t,” the boy said. “She’s too exhausted.” Hopkins said, “What fraternity do you belong to, kid?” “Pi Delta Pi.” “A Pi Pi, huh?” “Yes.”
“Burroughs? Did you hear this? He’s a Pi Pi.” Burroughs was saying, “Come on now. Rise and shine, little lady.”
Hopkins said, “Do you know Bud Burroughs?”
“Yes. Bud.”
“That’s his old man.”
Then Burroughs called out, “Hopkins?”
“What?”
“Put the cuffs on him.” “He’s okay.” “Put them on!”
Hopkins had often heard an angry tone in Burroughs’ voice, but never one with this edge of panic added.
Quickly, Hopkins reached to his side for the handcuffs. The boy waited, holding up his wrists to make it easier for Hopkins.
Then Hopkins walked over to the Thunderbird, pulling the boy with him, as though he were drag weight.
Burroughs’ voice cracked. “I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”
She was also naked under the fur coat, slumped back against the right car door, with blood running from her breasts down the white skin of her body.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Hopkins said. “Oh, God!”
He turned his head away, found himself staring into the boy’s face.
“She couldn’t help it,” the boy whispered. There were tears flooding his eyes.
Two
Charles Shepley’s roommate was always fooling with a tape recorder. Two days before the murder in Grandview Par
k, his latest results were playing in their room at the Pi Pi house, an anastomosis of Staff Sergeant Barry Sadler’s “The Ballad of the Green Berets” with the Beatles’ “Nowhere Man.”
STAFF. SGT. SADLER (drum rolls in the background): “Fighting soldiers from the sky.”
THE BEATLES (guitars twanging): “Real nowhere man.”
STAFF SGT. SADLER: “Fearless men who jump and die.”
THE BEATLES: “In a nowhere land.”
STAFF SGT. SADLER: “Men who mean just what they say.”
THE BEATLES: “For nobody.”
“Like it, Shep?”
“It’s all right.”
The room smelled of rubbing alcohol and Pub. Dan Thorpe wanted to be a writer (he was midway through a very staccato book; all the conversation was preceded by dashes instead of quotation marks). Ever since he had read in Hotchner’s book that Papa preferred sponge baths with rubbing alcohol, he had not been near soap and water, which was why he needed help from Revlon, and doused himself with their male fragrance.
“Why just all right?”
“Not just all right; it’s all right. It’s okay.” “You like it?”
Charles said he did; why start with Dan?
They had been roommates since they pledged Pi Pi in October. By this time, Charles was resigned to most of the facts involving Daniel Quentin Thorpe III.
That Thorpe loved his body, even his eyelids, which were now being soothed by two damp Oculine eye pads, as he stretched out in his red-and-white-polka-dot shorts, atop his Bates bedspread, a copy of Ramparts, open to an article berating the C.I.A., containing his Mexsana-powdered feet.
That Thorpe read I.F. Stone religiously, learning the weekly newsletter like a catechism; that you never really had an argument with Dan, but with I.F., or Murray Kempton, or James A. Wechsler, or Far Point College’s lone way-out leftist Dr. Dowdy, who taught Dialectical Materialism and considered himself a Maoist.
That Thorpe, a nice enough guy, well-meaning and wholesome, was too much hot air, always overdid everything, worked too painstakingly at something which was not that important, usually went over the way this thing playing did, this crossing of the Beatles and the staff sergeant; the time involved, just to get:
