“Do you own a hatchet, Mr. Parsons?”
Parsons remained silent for a moment, then smiled. “Everyone owns a hatchet.”
“Answer the question.”
The smile on his face wilted. “Yes.”
“Do you know where it is?”
Parsons opened his mouth, then closed it, but not before Radhauser saw the tremor in his chin. “Last time I recollect seeing it, the hatchet was hanging over my workbench in the garage on some pegboard. I only use it in the winter to split logs that are too big for the fireplace.”
“Have you used it recently?”
“If you’re asking if I cut off my wife’s hand, the answer is no.”
“Do you ever go to Lithia Park?”
Parsons put his elbows on the table and spoke with his face in his hands, the way someone might cradle an aching wisdom tooth. “Everyone in Ashland goes to Lithia Park. I don’t go so often, but Marsha, she takes…I mean she took the kids there a lot.”
“When was the last time you were there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe for the Easter Egg Hunt a couple, three weeks ago. Why do you want to know?”
Radhauser had wanted to keep the severed hand out of the press and something only the police knew for as long as possible. With Parsons insisting on seeing his wife’s body, that may no longer be possible. But he could keep the drawing on her hand from Parsons. Radhauser asked, “How are you at art, Mr. Parsons. Can you draw?”
“Another one of your st…st…stupid questions. Sure, I can draw a straight line if I’m sober.” Using his right hand, Parsons brushed his hair back with obvious irritation. “I don’t want to answer any more of your ridiculous questions until I talk to a lawyer.”
“That’s your right, but it's Saturday and pretty late. I suspect no attorney would be willing to come in until Monday.”
“I’ll wait. Can I go home now?”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that. Your house is a crime scene. And no one who isn’t part of the investigative team is allowed inside yet. We have the right to hold a suspect for twenty-four hours. Suppose we reserve a room for you at Ashland Holding Jail until your attorney can get here?”
“Fine. At this point I don’t give a crap what you do with me.” Parsons spat out the words.
It was getting late and this questioning was getting them nowhere. Radhauser told McBride to call it a night once she had Parsons booked and safely locked up. “I’ll interview him again tomorrow. He needs to sober up. Otherwise, the interview won’t hold up in court.”
Chapter Nine
It was eight-fifteen and the sun had started its descent, but Radhauser had one more stop to make before he returned to his ranch.
Ahmed and Daria Azami lived on the ground floor of an apartment building in Ashland, off Pine Street, a short distance from the Shakespeare Festival theaters.
Apartment 4C faced a grassy courtyard with barbeque grills, some scattered picnic tables, and a sandy area in the center that held a swing set. The air smelled like wet earth from the evening sprinklers and droplets of water still clung to blades of grass. Radhauser stepped up to the door and stopped, frozen in place. A crude and very red crescent moon and star covered a thirty-inch square of the wood. The bottom tip of the crescent dripped red paint as if bleeding. Muhammad Is A Pig and Go Back Where You Belong were scrawled in black letters beneath the crescent.
He stared at the door and thought about the golden moon and star on the wall in Marsha’s prayer room, and the red paint on Sherman Parsons’ thumb and index finger. Had Parsons painted these slurs on his co-worker’s door? Radhauser tried to imagine how it would feel to come home and find something like this to welcome you. After a long moment, and several deep breaths, he knocked.
Shuffling sounds emerged from inside the apartment and finally, a woman’s voice, tentative, with a Middle Eastern accent. “Who is at the door? Who is zere?”
“My name is Detective Winston Radhauser. I’m with the Ashland Police Department.”
“The bolice?” Her voice lifted in surprise, or was it fear? “We do no wrong. My husband and I, we are US citizens. We are not terrorists. We love our country.”
“I’m not here with Immigration and you’re not in any trouble. I just want to ask some questions.”
“One minute, blease.” More shuffling sounds. “Ahmed,” she called loud enough for Radhauser to hear through the door. “We have visitor. Man say he is detective with Ashland bolice.”
Radhauser waited.
Ahmed, a well-built man who appeared to be in his late thirties, opened the door. He wore a long black tunic with red and blue braid trim on the neckline and sleeves. His head was wrapped in a turban, and his eyebrows and neatly-trimmed beard were dark as crow feathers.
“Are you Ahmed Azami?”
“Yes. I am he.” Ahmed offered his hand. There was caution in his voice, a hint of fear in his eyes.
Radhauser shook the outstretched hand.
Ahmed stepped aside. He stood about five-feet-ten-inches tall and probably weighed about 165 pounds. The hem of his tunic, also trimmed with red and blue braid, dropped to mid-thigh on his loose-fitting black trousers. His eyes were big, almond-shaped and amber-colored.
Radhauser entered. A vase of freshly-cut lilac blossoms on the end table released their sweet, fresh fragrance into the room. “I need to speak with both you and your wife, Mr. Azami.”
“Please. You may call me Ahmed. How may I be of service to you?” When Ahmed smiled, it indented a dimple on each of his cheeks. His teeth were straight and white. He nodded for Radhauser to sit in one of the side chairs in front of the sliding glass door, then seated himself on the facing sofa.
“I’m here to gather information about a case I’m working on.” Radhauser took off his Stetson and placed it in his lap. The two lamps on either side of the long, tapestry-covered sofa were shaped like urns with bright red shades. They gave the room a soft glow, like a summer sunset.
Ahmed stiffened. “You are with the police. What would I or Daria know about your case?”
“It involves someone you know.”
Seconds later, a somewhat out of breath woman entered the room, her small hands fussing with the teal blue niqab she'd put on after he arrived. The veil covered her entire face with only a pair of intense eyes visible—so dark it was hard to tell pupil from iris. They were wide-set and framed with thick lashes. She wore an ankle-length, multicolored skirt.
Both men stood.
Ahmed extended his right arm in a sweeping motion as if he were introducing a queen. “This is my wife, Daria Azami.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Azami.”
Something about Mrs. Azami made her seem younger than her husband. Perhaps it was the fact she was no bigger than a twelve-year-old child, but well along in her pregnancy. She took a step back, obvious distrust in her gaze. “I no understand why bolice come. We do nothing wrong.”
Her small size and the pregnancy made it very unlikely she could have dragged Marsha Parsons from her bedroom into the dining room and gotten her into that chair without help.
“Don’t be frightened, Mrs. Azami. I’m not here to hurt you. I need to talk to you and your husband about Marsha Parsons.”
The dark eyes widened. “Blease, you may call me Daria. But Marsha, she is my friend. She is okay?”
“How about we all sit down and talk?”
Before she lowered herself onto the sofa, a small, golden-brown boy with black hair appeared in the hallway and peeped around the corner into the living room.
“Of course. But one more moment, blease.” She turned toward the boy.
He looked to be about six or seven years old. Aside from the white taqiya, a type of skull cap, covering the back of his head, he was dressed like an American boy—jeans and a green baseball shirt.
“Kareem,” she said. “It is time for you to dress in your bajamas. We will come in to read stories and say goodnight soon.”
The
boy turned to get a better look at Radhauser. His eyes were huge and amber-colored, just like his father’s. “But I have no school tomorrow. I want to stay up and watch the cowboy.”
Radhauser couldn’t help but smile. “Do you like cowboys, Kareem?”
“Very much.” His eyes grew even wider as he edged closer to his mother. “I wish to ride a horse someday.”
Daria gently turned him around and ushered him down the hallway. “You may read a book about horses.”
Radhauser heard the familiar sounds of a child bargaining with a parent, then a door closing.
He looked around the apartment. The living and dining rooms were combined and L-shaped, the smaller section of the L used for dining. Hardwood floors set off sleek and modern-looking furniture. Heavy red velvet curtains covered the sliding glass door.
Again, Ahmed gestured toward the chair. “Please, you must sit now.”
Radhauser sat. He knew there was no letter P in the Arabic alphabet and many English-speaking Arabs replaced it with a B, the way Daria had done. But Ahmed must have studied English. His pronunciation was perfect.
“Your son is a very handsome boy,” Radhauser said. “How old is he?”
“Kareem. It means beautiful in Arabic. He is seven years old, will be eight in February. But he is smaller than American boys his age.”
“I noticed his baseball shirt. Does he play on a team?”
“Yes. He is on Eagle team. Just like American boy.” Ahmed beamed.
This was a man who loved his son. Radhauser told Ahmed his daughter played on the Cardinals team in the same age division. “We may be sharing a field someday soon.”
A moment later, Daria returned.
“Daria, please prepare some tea and wafers for our guest.”
“You don’t need to bother,” Radhauser said.
"No," Ahmed insisted. "It is our way. No bother. You are our guest." His voice was softly musical—one of those voices that could sand all the rough edges in a conversation.
Radhauser had no choice but to acquiesce. He watched for a moment as Daria left the room. “Where did you learn to speak such good English?”
Ahmed smiled as if pleased by the compliment. "I grow up speaking what used to be called Farsi, but I study English at University of Kabul. Daria, she is daughter of professor, and he speak Arabic at home so she and her brothers will learn both. It is mostly I who teach her English." He stopped and stared at Radhauser, a momentary look of confusion and fear on his face. "But we are US citizens now. We become so in 1998. I have documents if you wish to see."
Ahmed’s fearful look got to Radhauser and something clenched in the center of his chest. It couldn’t be easy to be Muslim anywhere, especially in the US just eight months after the Twin Towers fell. “I’m not from Immigration,” he repeated. “And I’m so sorry for the intolerance and misunderstanding you’re experiencing here. I couldn’t help noticing your front door.”
When Ahmed grimaced, his dimples disappeared. “Every day it is something else. Allah, God of Death. Terrorist Go Home. America Hates Muslims. I try to wash the door off. And my wife and me, we paint over. Landlord, he helps too. But I come next day home and I find more." His voice faltered for a moment. "Now, I give up. Daria, she is afraid to go to market. People stare and whisper. One woman spit on her."
Radhauser shook his head, disappointed something like this could happen in a town he’d vowed to protect. But he was a cop. He’d seen the worst side of humanity and attempted to understand the motivation behind the crimes he investigated. “I’ve always taken pride in Ashland as a place of diversity and tolerance, but after what happened on 9-11, people are terrified.” He tried to keep his voice soft and conciliatory. Radhauser still looked up at the sky when a plane flew at a low altitude. Even though he knew the pilot had either just taken ¬¬¬off or was readying to land at Medford Airport, a shiver of fear ran through him.
“My wife is a good woman,” Ahmed said. “She hurts no one.”
“Most Americans don’t understand Islam,” Radhauser said. “But that’s no excuse for what you’re going through.”
Ahmed bowed slightly. “You are most kind. Falling of Twin Towers made us very sad, too. America, she is our home now. We plan to take Kareem and visit Statue of Liberty someday. But to say you are sorry for what others do, Detective Radhauser, it is not why you come here tonight.”
Radhauser smiled. “You’re right. I understand you’re a butcher and work with Sherman Parsons at Costco.”
"Yes. I am a butcher in Costco. But in Kabul, I am physician for children. I have many patients. But here they say my credentials are not good. I study at night for US Medical License exam. When I pass, I will apply for residency program. It is very difficult, but I try. For now, I must take care of my family so I work with Sherman Parsons. We cut and package the meat. My wife is friendly with Marsha. They become acquainted through work picnic last summer.”
There was something in the way his nostrils flared when he said it, a sharp intake of breath that didn’t seem quite natural, that made Radhauser realize Wendell was right. Ahmed wasn’t happy about their friendship.
“You don’t approve of your wife’s relationship with Marsha Parsons, do you?”
Ahmed was silent for a moment. “I try to adapt. I want Daria be happy here. Make friendships. But ways of American women are not same ways of Muslim women.” His troubled gaze never left Radhauser’s face.
When Daria returned with a tray full of cookies and a ceramic teapot, Radhauser realized he was hungry. She set the tray on the coffee table and nodded at Ahmed.
Radhauser knew enough about Muslims to understand women were not allowed to serve men other than family members.
Ahmed poured three cups of steaming, herbal tea and handed Radhauser a napkin.
“Marsha wants to convert to Islam. I teach her about salat and the Quran,” Daria said.
Did Ahmed believe his wife’s friendship with Marsha Parsons—the American ways she modeled—was stealing something from him and Kareem? Again, Radhauser thought about the cutting-off-the-hand punishment administered to thieves that Heron had mentioned. Could Ahmed believe Marsha to be a thief? He struck Radhauser as a cultivated and gentle man, but even gentle men were known to kill when motivated.
Radhauser picked up a cookie and took a bite. It tasted of butter, brown sugar, cinnamon and other spices he couldn’t identify. “Delicious.” He finished the cookie in three bites and picked up another one.
Though her smile was hidden, a new brightness in her eyes told him Daria was pleased by his reaction.
After taking a sip of the tea, Radhauser put the cup back on the coffee table. “Where were you last night between ten and midnight?”
Ahmed was quick to respond. “We were home. My uncle in New York says being outside in the dark—it is not safe. There are curfews and Muslim people are being rounded up on the streets there. I fear this might happen here, too. So, we rarely go out in night anymore. We go to Islamic Center sometimes for prayer and fellowship with other Muslims.”
“Can anyone vouch for your being home last night?”
“What does it mean, vouch? Did we have guests who will say we were here?” Ahmed’s questions were simple and asked without emotion.
“Yes. Or did you make or receive any phone calls I could verify with your telephone records? Or talk to any of your neighbors? Something that would prove you are telling me the truth.”
“I tell you truth,” Ahmed said, a slight edge to his voice. “I do not lie.”
Daria turned her fear-darkened gaze toward Radhauser but did not make eye contact. "We go to bed at ten o'clock. Right after we say Isha to Allah. We see no one. But I know my husband was here. And he knows I was also here. Why must you have someone else tell you this?"
Radhauser ignored her question and asked another. “Have you ever been to Lithia Park?”
Ahmed cocked his head and looked at Radhauser. “I know of it. But I have not been there.”
“When was the last time you were there, Mrs. Azami?”
Her gaze drifted to her husband, then back toward Radhauser, but she didn’t make eye contact. “Only couple days ago. Wednesday. When Ahmed and Sherman are working at Costco. Sometimes Marsha and I, we take children for lunch before Jill has nap.”
Her voice trembled slightly and Radhauser got the distinct impression her husband neither approved nor knew about her Lithia Park outings with Marsha Parsons. Could Ahmed have severed Marsha’s hand and returned it to the park as a disapproving message to his wife? But if, as Radhauser suspected, Ahmed didn’t know about his wife’s visits to the park, why would he plant Marsha’s hand near the playground? It didn’t make sense.
“Did anything unusual happen?”
“No. Only Marsha, she is angry with Junior. So, we go home early.”
Radhauser thought about the drawing on the back of the severed hand. A loving mother cradling her child. “Is she often angry with Junior?”
“He is active boy and not so obedient as Kareem jan.”
When used after a proper name, the word jan was a term of endearment in Farsi. “Did she discipline Junior at the park?”
Daria stared straight ahead for a long moment. “I do not wish to get her in any trouble.”
“Marsha won’t be in trouble. I can promise you that.”
“Junior, he talk back. She lose temper and slap him very hard. Her ring has sharp stones, it cut his cheek. He bleed and cry for long time. Marsha, she feel very bad. Embarrassed, too, I think.”
“Did your friend seem depressed or frightened about anything?”
“No. She is excited to be learning about Muhammad and how to be a good Muslim.”
“How did her husband feel about this change in his wife?”
“He was not bleased.” She gestured with her hands, brown and small as a young girl’s. “And he say he will leave her and take children with him.” Instinctively, she cradled her abdomen and Radhauser remembered the way Gracie had done that when pregnant with Lizzie and Jonathan. A protective and universal gesture of a woman carrying her unborn child.
Red Hatchet Falls Page 7
