by Robyn Carr
When I asked him what he remembered about the Lawler murders, he hesitated; he thought for a long time before answering. It seemed his memory for detail was fuzzy, but that wasn’t the worst of it.
Dake was fifty-eight, and for reasons I will never know, he was bitter and angry. He remembered that he couldn’t pin anything on Lawler and remembered being convinced Lawler had done it.
I told him about the evidence, the altered transfer record.
“That’s no secret,” he replied, flip. “We saw it right away. It was a flubbed record, a typo corrected by the typist at the time it was done. There were plenty of witnesses to the fact that he was there.”
“What witnesses? Like doctors and nurses?”
“Staff, yes,” he said. “And other patients.”
“Did you look at the intake records in minimum security? Had you noticed their failure to record his transfer? There is no intake there. None. They have nurses’ notes after the eighteenth; no transfer or intake document. I think it was taken out. It’s possible that someone removed the transfer and intake information and the first five days of nurses’ notes from the minimum-security file and added five extra days of records to the maximum-security file.”
“Now that it’s been twelve years, it looks like it was taken out,” he said, very sarcastic and impatient with me. “At the time we talked to everyone on staff and he was in a tight mental unit during the murders, in a minimum later. Look, why you doing this?”
“Didn’t Mike tell you?”
“Tell me what? He got some stuff on this, but he didn’t tell me nothing.”
“I met Tom Lawler. He’s still haunted by this thing, and the worst of it is that he’s never been charged, so he’s never gone to trial, so he’s never proven his innocence. It still follows him around; he can’t do his work, he can’t live a good life.”
“Lady, if you’re getting yourself involved with this guy, you’re as crazy as he is. Lawler may not be mentally ill, but he’s goddamn conniving and sneaky. He got everything he ever wanted, and when he got tired of it, he got rid of it. Now, if I was you, I’d rather spend my time with someone certifiable instead of some evil, sneaky bastard like Lawler.”
“What is it with you?” I asked him. “You act like you hate him for some reason. You were supposed to find a killer, not take a personality inventory on a man you had no evidence to connect to a crime.”
He leveled his stern, rheumy gaze on me for a minute. “I got no time for fancy shrinks, lady. Tell your boyfriend he isn’t getting any trouble from LAPD; we haven’t pursued him in five or ten years now. He can’t make a good life, it’s his headache, not mine.”
“He isn’t my boyfriend,” I said.
I was frustrated though not surprised by the lack of decent paperwork on the case. I was annoyed by the fact that people just don’t change their minds. Here they had seen what could, best case, be enough circumstantial evidence to get an indictment on Devalian and clear Tom. No one was interested anymore. I questioned my stake in this; I cared about justice more than I cared about Tom.
My last attempt to reach someone failed. The lawyer whose picture appeared in an old newspaper clipping with Tom was named Charles Nielson. And he was on vacation.
“So Mike,” I said, “this one last thing. He’ll be back in about a week. Call him for me? Please? Or better still, drop in on him some time soon and tell him what we found.”
We were having dinner, Chelsea’s famous chili made with ground turkey rather than beef. And Mike said, “What’s this ‘we’? You got a mouse in your pocket?”
“Come on, you helped me with this — let’s finish it. Maybe it’s a good thing that Nielson wasn’t in town. I’d like to see this thing solved once and for all. If Tom Lawler Wahl is going to get some good news, I’d rather it didn’t come from me. I plan to have less traffic with the guy.”
“Maybe he won’t even go back to Coleman. Maybe he’ll move on. He’s a moving kind of guy, isn’t he?”
“He’s got property there, a house. I’d love to hear he’s selling it and leaving for good, but I’m trying to prepare myself for seeing him around town again.”
“You know. Jack,” he said, pointing his fork at me across the table, “I got it figured that you think you ought to like this small-town jazz, and it isn’t exciting enough for you. Who else would develop a whole case out of a few little pieces of information and a lifted toilet seat?”
“It’s exciting enough,” I argued. “Especially since we have a killer somewhere in the valley. I had this insidious doubt about Tom. I wanted to be sure. Maybe I’ll tell Bodge.”
“Do yourself a favor; let this one go once and for all. Drop it, forget it, and don’t say anything to anybody. Let the doctor pretend to be a carpenter, and butt out. You might somehow be keeping this whole issue alive by working it to death. Bodge can take care of himself. Anyway, Bodge has got the Mod Squad to help him out with the killer.”
“The what?” I asked.
He ate, chewed, and talked with his mouth open. “I’d bet my left nut that Krump is in Coleman working on this. It all adds up to him being there for a reason. Him and about ten others scattered around. Now, what did he tell me? Yeah, yeah, he got burned out on police work after making about a dozen of the best busts in the country and shooting around as many people. The guy got drafted, for Christ’s sake. And now he wants a good place to raise the kids... which he didn’t have before and they’re already like teenagers. And they’re in boarding school. Yep. That’s pretty convenient.”
“So he married a woman with kids?”
“And he says he feels like he’s running a retreat for burned-out cops who need to get away, smell nature, camp and fish a little. This is a guy who never knew from fishing when he lived here, I can tell you that.”
“Well, everyone knows he used to be a cop, so he doesn’t have much of a cover if he’s undercover,” I argued.
“That is his cover, Jack. He was a cop, he’s retired and does consulting, and that’s how he can justify having so many of ‘the guys’ visit him. That way if anybody makes one of his house guests for a cop, it washes. Huh?”
“I think,” I said, “that your imagination is more dangerous than mine.”
17
I returned to Coleman still ambivalent about what to do with my information about Tom Lawler, so I did nothing. I didn’t tell Bodge or Roberta what I’d done in L.A.
The end of April brought a spring that was refreshing, renewing, and I was feeling stronger and more confident every day. I believed my mental health had greatly improved as a result of having done my own research on Tom’s brush with the law. I had clarified for myself that he was not a criminal. I felt I could face him with more self-assurance now.
I went to Finishing Touches to pick up the custom-sewn quilted bedspread that would match the blinds, curtains, and wallpaper I’d purchased, and as if to challenge my position, I found Tom in the store, chatting with Beth. Beth stood behind the counter and Tom leaned on it, blocking her.
I almost withdrew. My feelings were a mixture of embarrassment, resentment, and fear of his reaction to me, mine to him. When Beth leaned to the side to see who had come into the store and let out a cheery “Well, hi, Jackie,” Tom turned to smile in his shy, reserved way. He gave a nod.
“Beth,” I said. “Tom. How is everyone?”
He muttered something that sounded like “Fine” and Beth said, “Great, and I’ve got your spread.”
There was the business of paying and getting a receipt; when I reached for the bulky plastic-wrapped cover, Tom stopped me. “Here,” he said, grabbing it. “I’ll be glad to put it in your car for you.”
“I can do it,” I protested, but he ignored me and took it through the door, tossing it in the backseat of my BMW. After which I could only come up with a lame “Thanks.”
“You look like winter agreed with you,” he said.
“It was my first snowing winter,” I said. My eyes were drawn to
his hand and the missing finger, then back to his face. “And you?”
“Good. I’m glad everything worked out like it did — I needed a change of scenery, a little perspective, and the ocean is calming. I guess you remember I needed calming down.”
I ignored that. “The Florida ocean?”
“Yeah. I traveled around the state, camped, and took short-term jobs here and there. Checked out the Everglades. I keep being drawn back here for some reason; I can’t give up these wonderful hills and valleys. I don’t have to be tied down. I can move around as much as I please. Live out of a truck and trailer. My life is uncomplicated.”
I had to be careful not to roll my eyes in disbelief. Uncomplicated? This was the most complex man I had ever known.
“You have a house and work here. That’s a big draw, too,” I said, wishing I hadn’t made any excuse for more small talk.
“I pick up work everywhere. Everyone needs a handyman, carpenter. I have to relearn that lesson all the time, about how little I need. I used to be attached to money, material things that are meaningless. Listen, Jackie —”
I braced myself for what was coming. I sensed he wanted to make up. I was willing to smooth things over. Those aren’t the same.
“I don’t know how to say this. I’m sorry about all the trouble. It wasn’t your fault and I think I might have acted like I thought it was your fault.”
“I know it wasn’t my fault. Not your fault or mine. I was doing what I thought was best at the time. That’s all. I don’t blame you for being upset, I don’t blame me for being upset, and neither of us could help any of it.”
“I know. I acted like an ass.”
We had already done this number once. It began a whole series of me being applauded, then chastised and blamed, then forgiven, then criticized. It wasn’t unlike what a battered woman goes through; being rescued by her own attacker. After a few rounds of this, you’re perpetually off balance. You never know whether what you’re going to do will make him mad or garner his praise. I was at once conscious of this and refused to let it go on.
“Water over the dam, Tom. No problem. Let’s forget about it and press on, huh?”
He smiled then, with teeth. “I’d like that, Jackie.”
“Good. I gotta run; I have a busy calendar.”
“Sure. Maybe we can —” He stopped himself right there. “I guess that would be a mistake, huh?”
“How long have you been back?” I asked.
“A couple of days.”
“You heard about Wharton?”
“Yeah. Godawful; poor guy.”
I thought about correcting his impression, telling him he’d been all wrong about Wharton. I held my tongue. I also knew now, after just moments in his company, that to hear from me that I’d further investigated his situation was too much — he was already making those noises about being friends, going out, whatever this was about. I refused to believe he was that uncontrollably attracted to me. We’d been trouble for each other. That wasn’t a one-way deal; I was trouble for him, too. He shouldn’t want to be involved with me any further.
“Well, I have to run,” I tried again. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, and I opened my car door. His hand on the door stopped me and I felt chilled. Apprehensive.
“Beth told me she told you all about Elaine.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Beth said it was a mess; both of you were hurt. Terrible. Well...”
“So,” he said, “maybe you understand now why I’m a little — I don’t know — skittish and inexperienced with women. I’ve been through a couple of tough events with them. I’d like a chance to prove I’m not like that all the time. What do you say, Jackie?”
I put a hand on his forearm and felt his muscles tense beneath my touch. I looked into his eyes; his pupils contracted and his eyes narrowed, though the change was barely perceptible. I was thrown off kilter again; he didn’t like me yet pursued me. This was a game and I couldn’t fathom the motive. I used my firm, sincere voice. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Tom. I don’t think there’s any more explaining or apologizing for either one of us to do. Let’s drop it. Now. That’s what I want.”
He slowly withdrew his hand and frowned. I could sense though not see his anger. He was rigid and glared at me.
“Jackie, I’d like to —”
“No,” I cut him off. “We’re not going to talk about it again. I have to get to work. Now.” I frowned right back at him.
“We’ll be running into each other,” he said.
“Fine.” I physically nudged him away from my car, carefully and slowly. I got in, started the engine, and smiled at him. I gave a little wave and said, “See ya,” at the closed window. He stood there, watching me leave, scowling. I watched in my rearview mirror for a while after I pulled out and saw him staring after my car until he was out of sight.
By now I was sick of this. Sick and confused. I couldn’t understand what was happening, what he was about, what was going on. My instincts were screaming bloody murder, and my logic — and, indeed, my own sophisticated investigative prowess — had shown again and again that he was merely a man who had had a bad run of luck.
He was not okay. This I knew. And he seemed in no way to be experiencing the unfortunate side effects of being a victim of violent crime. This wasn’t guilt, paranoia, phobia. His behavior was controlling and manipulative — which, unmistakably, is more typical of the criminal than of the victim. Wouldn’t a guilty, phobic guy retreat and withdraw in feelings of victimization? Tom became agitated and angry when I refused to date him. I experienced another shuddering spasm of fear and suspicion.
Then, as in the past, after a few quiet days and no contact with him, my screaming instincts calmed and I once again talked myself into believing that for some reason I did not understand this man. And that that didn’t make him bad.
Then Mike called me one morning at the office.
“Sit down. Jack.”
“Oh, God. What now?”
“Well, kiddo, I don’t know how to tell you this... I went to see that guy, what’s his name — Nielson. The lawyer?”
I braced myself. My heart picked up speed and my palms got instantly wet.
“It turns out that this guy, Tom Wahl, is not Tom Lawler.”
“What?”
“He’s not Tom Lawler. He’s an impostor. A fraud.”
“Well, who the hell is he?”
“No telling,” Mike said calmly. “Could be he’s Tom Wahl. Seems like this whole story is a whole story.”
“He looks like Tom Lawler,” I said. I began to tremble.
“I know; there’s a strong resemblance between your carpenter and the younger Lawler. The carpenter looks like he could have changed a bit in the twelve years, huh? The real Lawler has changed ever more. Did I ever tell you about that cop who wasn’t a cop? I cannot figure out these people, these frauds. We had this guy who was supposed to be a transfer and it turned out all his stuff was made-up, bogus, forged stuff. He wasn’t a cop at all, had no education, no training, and —”
“Forget about that!” I snapped. “What the hell is this? How did you find this out?”
“Well, I did what you asked me to do and now I’m sorry I didn’t get around to it sooner. I went to see the lawyer and asked him if he had once represented this Ph.D., this Tom Lawler, and he said he had. And so I laid it on him about how I knew someone who knew him and believed that he was still feeling that everyone thought he was guilty, and after looking at the evidence through police sources, I for one didn’t feel one hundred percent sure he was guilty. I said I thought he was innocent.
“So this lawyer lets me talk and talk; I told him about the transfer, the records, the dates, the nurses’ notes, all that and he finally says that I have some old stuff. They found it all a long, long time ago and that was one way Tom Lawler had avoided an indictment. He also said that we missed a couple of things — it turns out that Tom Lawler, working for the s
tate and being a hotshot psychologist, could have himself gone into that maximum-security unit and played with the records if he’d wanted to. He could have changed that transfer record from the eighteenth to the thirteenth if he wanted to. Or he could have made it look like it was changed from the thirteenth to the eighteenth by pencil-whipping it.
“This lawyer says he didn’t do that, and before the police even thought of it, Nielson took statements from everyone on every shift that they didn’t see Lawler near the place.”
“So how does that mean —”
“Nielson asked me what got me interested in this. So I told him, sort of. I told him my ex-wife began dating Tom Lawler, who is now living under a different name in Colorado, and merely wanted to assure herself that this guy was not capable of killing his wife and child. And Nielson looks at me and says, ‘This must be quite a burden for Tom’s wife, Megan, who believes herself to be happily married to a man who lives in another state.’”
“Megan?” I asked weakly.
“Yeahhhh,” Mike said in a way that caused me to envision him stretching. “Dr. Lawler stays in touch with his lawyer, strictly professional relationship. Couple of calls a year to see if anything new has surfaced on that old case. Lawler remarried and has a child. Then Nielson drags out this box of Christmas cards; he hadn’t thrown them away yet — always means to read through them. He picks through the cards and pulls out one from Lawler, complete with family photo. Jack, Lawler’s hair is still a lighter color, what there is of it. He’s chubby, he wears glasses, and he looks preppy.”
“Jesus.” It was truly a prayer. “Where is he?”
“Lawler? Oh, he’s in Oregon. He went there, began doing some private counseling, did some teaching, some writing, and he’s still got a business going. He’s respectable.
“Nielson added some insights that were never passed on to me at work. Dake Ramsey, Nielson said, had a boner for Lawler; he’s prejudiced against shrinks. Hates ‘em. Hates the whole insanity clause. It was Dake who created the innuendo about mistresses and drugs and debts. Nielson claims it was established that Lawler was on an emergency call to see a female patient who was not a mistress; an unstable woman, not a lover. His treatment was for tranks and booze, almost a year after the murders, and his debts were legitimate. He spent too much money on credit.”