by Robyn Carr
I felt as if I were talking to my old gynecologist. Bodge and Sue had this nonjudgmental way about them; the way they never gasped or oohed made me feel I could bare my soul easily, safely. “Yes, since you asked. I’d nearly forgotten, or tried to put it out of my mind. He’s an Olympic lover; he has some kind of sexual dysfunction and he never has orgasms. Ever.”
“Oh Jesus,” Bodge groaned. “Anything else? Anything kinky?”
“Nothing else; believe me, that was enough. I think you should know — I printed him. I Express Mailed prints to Mike.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“I was afraid you’d just tell me that pretending to be someone you’re not isn’t illegal and you wouldn’t want to do anything like print him. Mike brought me a kit last fall when I was having that phantom stuff. He taught me how to use it. He said he’d send the prints through NCIC for a match, but it would take a while.”
“You think you got good prints?”
“Three good ones off a ceramic cup. A thumb and two fingers.”
“Um. Jackie, let me tell you something. Your ears only. I’m putting Sweeny back on your couch until I feel I’ve taken a good enough look at old Tom. He’s harassing you — that’s reason enough to protect you. I’ll see if I can get some help in speeding up NCIC. Give me Mike’s number and I’ll call him. We have a group of state police and federal people in the valley.”
“Brad Krump,” I said.
“He’s a consultant. He’s part of a federal task force working with the CHP and us locals on these serial murders. Any suspicious character is going to get some fast attention right now; these boys are hungry for tips.”
“You going to offer up Tom as a possible serial killer?” I asked, a shiver running through me.
“Everybody in the valley is a possible — particularly those people with irregular behavior. You still worried about making trouble for the poor boy?”
I lifted my chin a notch. Damn right I was worried, but not about making trouble. I was afraid this would be another fruitless exercise. “I believe Tom, or whoever he is, is the one making trouble.”
18
Brad Krump’s home in Pleasure was a task-force command post from which law-enforcement groups studied the Wet Valley murders. Krump had computers, facsimile machines, several phone lines, copiers, and printers. I learned this from Bodge; I never saw the inside of Krump’s house. I imagined maps that showed the victims’ residences and the location of the bodies. All the dead women had been carried twenty to sixty miles from where they were last seen alive.
The task force was federal, the state police headed the investigation, and local law enforcement participated. I asked Bodge if he felt ignored in the process and he smiled in response. “I keep a tight fist around my county, Jackie. And my town.”
“Do they keep you informed? I had always heard that when the big guns move in, the local guys get shoved aside.”
“That may seem so,” he said. “There’s hardly anything that feds can tell me about Coleman or Henderson County that I didn’t know first.”
“Maybe I should ask if you keep them informed.”
“I do, because I’ll take all the help I can get. And fast. Near as I can tell, there hasn’t been a murder in the valley in a year. If something doesn’t turn up — a suspect, evidence, something — we may lose the feds and the state.”
“Do they have anyone they’re watching?”
“A few possibles have been checked. You have to realize how tough it is to put someone who lives on forty acres and travels deserted country roads under surveillance. It’s easy to watch someone in a New York apartment, someone who drives crowded freeways and wouldn’t know he’s being followed. Out here? You watch from a distance. No one has been targeted.”
“What if it’s him, Bodge?”
“That would be too good to be true. The only thing we’re looking at is that he isn’t who he says he is. There isn’t a single other curious thing about him. Except why. To kill women? If that was it, you probably wouldn’t be sitting here talking to me right now.”
If Sweeny knew why he was back on my couch, he didn’t say anything. Unlike the first time, I didn’t feel so snug upstairs in my bedroom. Before, when I was worrying about a lifted toilet seat or a spilled glass of juice, Sweeny’s presence gave me confidence. At this point I wasn’t sure what I feared. A liar? An obsessive man with an unnatural determination to have me for a lover? A murderer?
I felt as though I were holding my breath. Mike had submitted the prints to NCIC and the process of making a match had been given a higher priority by the local investigation. Three days after lifting and mailing those prints, I wondered how long I could stand the wait. I was edgy and tense. I hadn’t talked to anyone but Bodge, Sue, and Mike about this. Roberta had no way of knowing what was eating at me.
Mike and Chelsea wanted me to sit the wait out in L.A. It was a tempting thought, until I considered pacing around their small house waiting for a phone call that would tell me it was all a wild goose chase; he was a liar and opportunist and nothing else was wrong with him; he was someone named Arnold Horowitz from Chicago, bored and boring, who added this edge to his existence with a dramatic twist on a life he borrowed. I wanted to be in Coleman for the news.
On the third day of this high-strung wait, when Peggy walked down to the cafe to buy snacks and Roberta was out meeting a client, Tom came into the office. “Hi, Jackie,” he said cheerfully.
I felt like running out the back door and I couldn’t let on. I had to try to be my usual self, whoever that was. “Hi, Tom. What can I do for you?”
“Wondering how you’ve been.”
I was miserable; the room began to feel close and stuffy. I tried to continue writing, not giving him any power by dropping my work to focus on him. “Like, have I read any good books lately?” I asked.
He leaned a hip on my desk, invading my space. “Yeah, like that.”
He was close enough to touch me; I put down my pen, stood, picked up my coffee cup, and wandered away from him. “Not lately.” I realized it was useless to behave in a friendly, cheery way. I wouldn’t be fooling him.
“I’ve been working a lot. Summer is busy for me. I get calls from all over the place—from hardware stores and decorator shops. Do busywork when I’m not building. Got another cup of coffee?”
“I don’t have time to chat, Tom. I have to work.”
He stood and walked into the back room. I heard him rummaging around for a cup, talking all the while. “All work and no play, Jackie. You know what they say about that. You ought to take time for fun.” He came out holding a cup of coffee. “You work too hard; you’re too serious.”
“I have a lot to do; why don’t you tell me what I can do for you so I can get back to work.”
He laughed. “Cranky today? Well, I did have a reason for stopping by. How about dinner? My place?”
Cool, I told myself. “No thanks, Tom.” No excuses, no plans, just no.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to,” I said.
“You seeing someone?”
“Tom, don’t push this. We decided, you and I, sensibly, that we’re not going to date or see each other. That’s for the best; that’s what I want.”
“You decided,” he said.
“My prerogative,” I returned.
“You’re being too hard on me,” he said. He didn’t say so meanly. “You’re avoiding me, I think.”
“Not at all,” I lied. “I can’t think of a single occasion that would throw us together.”
“I want another chance,” he said. “I’m a good guy, you’re a neat lady. I want another chance.”
“Don’t be unreasonable, please. I’ve decided what I want and I don’t want to argue.”
“Why? We were so good for each other. This is a lonely place, Coleman. Have you looked at the available men around here?”
“I’m not lonely; I’m not scouting for available men. I’m going to say this
one more time. I don’t intend to date you. That was last year, Tom. Let it be.”
“It was more than dinner.”
“I’m not going to apologize for that. I’m not going to change my mind because of it.”
He sipped his coffee and looked around the cluttered little office. He looked me straight in the eye. “It was about the best sex you’ve ever had.”
My eyes widened and my mouth tightened. “I think you’d better go.”
“Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it the best sex you’ve ever had?”
“Tom, I want you to leave. You’re making me very uncomfortable.”
“I can do that for you, you know. No strings attached; me and you and fabulous sex. Pretty soon you’d like me again.”
“Go,” I said firmly. I reached out for his coffee cup but he moved it out of my reach.
“Come on, Jackie, why do you make it so hard on me? Why do you act like you don’t want to? I know you want to — you’re scared to let yourself go and enjoy it. I could show you some things; trust me.”
“Get out and don’t come back here. Don’t bother me again.”
“Aw, Jackie, you just —”
I reached past him and picked up the phone. I made a power show I didn’t feel. “I’ll call Sweeny,” I said. “I mean it; you can leave or I’ll call the police.”
“For what? Going to register a complaint that I asked you to dinner? That isn’t against the law. Maybe you wanna tell ‘em that I can fuck your brains out all night and never stop.” He laughed; his smile was menacing. “You had so many orgasms; that ought to be against the law. You can tell them how you hated it.” Then he laughed again. Cruelly.
I started to dial and the door opened. Peggy came in, a bag of Cheetos in one hand and a six-pack of diet soda in the other. “Hi, Tom,” she said cheerfully. “How you doing?”
“Good, Peggy — never better. How’s that boy of yours doing in Little League?”
“Well, you won’t believe this: They’re winning. And Davey’s had some homers, but they still don’t play him as much as the bigger boys.”
He eased off my desk and I replaced the receiver. He moved toward Peggy with his mug in his hand.
“I used to have that problem, Peggy. I was small for my age back then; they always left me for last. I was a good hitter, too.”
“You think I should talk to the coach again?”
“Oh, yeah. Keep after him about it. First off, it’s good for Davey to see that you’re on his side about this, and second, the coach needs to be fair — sometimes you have to push for justice. Huh?”
He continued talking, asking questions about her husband, her kids, her house, leisurely sipping his coffee. I glared at his back; he was a smoothie. As the conversation between them continued over several minutes, I sat down again and pretended to concentrate on my work.
It was a test. He gave a good ten minutes to it. He finally said, “Well, I better shove off. Plenty of wood to chop this time of year.”
I refused to look up from my desk.
He returned his coffee cup to the sink in the back room as if he owned the place. His presence seemed to fill the office. “See ya later, Jackie,” he said. I didn’t respond. “Jackie?” he asked. I looked up. “I’ll see you later.”
“I have work to do, Tom.”
“You work too hard, Jackie. Ought to play a little more.”
“Not likely,” I said, looking back at my papers.
“Lawyers,” he said to Peggy, chuckling conspiratorially. “She’s gonna be like Roberta.” And Peggy joined him in the joke, laughing and teasing.
He finally left and I had to fight the shaking.
“What was that all about?” Peggy asked. “You were rude to him.”
I picked up the phone and dialed. “Just get to work, okay?” I said. I heard her huff and grumble. “Sue, hi, it’s Jackie,” I said. “You know that legal problem we’ve been discussing? I have something I’d like to run by you and I could use some fresh air. Mind if I drive out?”
“What is it, Bodge’s mama or his aunt Bertha?”
“If there’s any connection,” I said, “it could be both.”
***
“I don’t know why I never thought of it,” I told Sue. “I could kick myself — I know the reason. Because I had these dark instincts about this guy and I worked so damn hard to talk myself out of them. It’s what he does for a living! Even Wharton said Tom likes to pretend he’s this great craftsman and carpenter, claims he built his house from scratch, but he contracted almost all the work. He’s a handyman. He leaves his name and number with all the hardware stores, decorator shops, stuff like that. He installs curtains, blinds, shelves. Makes minor repairs. He’s probably got a schedule; he drives around to the small towns in the valley.”
“Doing jobs for housewives.”
“Whom he seduces.”
“And kills?”
I couldn’t say it yet. “Do you know if Bodge has thought of this? It should have been obvious. It should have bit us in the butt.”
“We’ll find out,” she said, picking up the ringing phone. “Hello? Yes, your mama’s here and she’s really anxious to talk to you. Where are you calling from? What are you doing out there?”
Sue passed me the phone and after asking Bodge if it was all right to talk to him on that line, I told him the same thing I’d told Sue. I also described Tom’s visit to my office and the way he had harassed me.
“Do you know the towns he’s worked in?”
“No. All over the valley, I suppose. When we were keeping in touch last fall, he mentioned Salida and Pueblo, but those aren’t small towns. He kept his business to himself; he was never specific about anything except his past as Tom Lawler. Have you learned anything yet?”
Bodge expertly evaded my question. “I don’t have any evidence that would allow me to make an arrest. I will tell you, though, it isn’t going to take more than another day or two to get an ID on this guy, unless he’s never done time or military service.”
“And if he hasn’t?”
“It’s going to take longer.”
“Are you going to check on this, Bodge? See if there’s any connection between the deaths and Mr. Fix-it?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am.”
“I’m scared.”
“You don’t have to stay in Coleman.”
“I know. I don’t know what to do.”
It was then that it hit me. At that moment I believed I had been targeted by a killer. I was too frightened to cry, too shaken to plot an escape. My knowledge of the legal system didn’t offer me any comfort; there was the question of evidence, enough suspicion to obtain an arrest warrant or search warrant. There might not be any evidence; it was unlikely that he kept a supply of rope and plastic bags under his bed. He might have done small jobs for every woman who had been killed, and that might not be enough.
“Bodge, is anyone watching him yet?”
“Much as we can. I told you; that’s hard to do in the country. It’s more accurate to say we’re keeping tabs on him.”
“Do you think I’m safe here? He’s got his eye on me, I know it.”
“Jackie, I’m about to tell you something that isn’t going to sound encouraging, but you gotta listen. I’m taking a close look at this Tom character; I’m trying to find out who he is, what he’s up to. I’m investigating. And I don’t know if I’m looking at a two-day investigation or a two-month investigation. I could get a call from Krump or Mike or NCIC tomorrow with a make, a connection, and enough information to do something — or I could get disappointed. In conditions like this, Jackie, I can’t do any more for you than let you stay with us or put Sweeny on your couch.
“That’s not the problem, see,” he went on. “You can do anything you want. You can close up shop and get on the next plane to L.A. You could go to Alaska and hide out. What you can’t do is tell anyone what’s going on. If this guy is who I’m after and he gets tipped off, I might never get him. You understand
what I’m saying?”
I sighed and closed my eyes. I felt the ache of tears in my throat. “It would be best if I could follow my daily routine and hide my terror of this, of him.”
“You can do anything you want. If you can act normal, we have a better chance of following up on this. Don’t allow yourself to be vulnerable. Stay in public places or behind closed doors with Sweeny.”
“My office? What if he comes back to my office?”
“We’re going to keep a county squad car in Coleman; the presence will be reassuring without being suspicious. I don’t want any CHP doing overtime in Coleman. That would be unusual. I’m guessing, but I don’t think this guy would try to abduct you from your office in broad daylight. Don’t go in early or stay late. That’s the best I can do.”
The act of walking through the following days without showing the emotions that set off internal fireworks in me was exhausting. I jumped every time someone walked in the office; I jerked my head up from my work to see who walked by. Roberta didn’t notice; she was single-minded about her work and concentrated on that, not me. Peggy said, “My goodness, you’re flinchy. And grumpy.”
“PMS,” I said, not elaborating.
Part of my routine was to go to the cafe before work, eight-thirty every morning, buy a Danish and a large coffee to go. The pot in our office was never prepared before I got there and I always had my cup while I waited for the next cup to brew.
How I longed for Wharton and Harry when I walked in that cafe in the mornings. Lip and George and a few others still had their coffee there and always welcomed me. To test my acting ability and composure, I had to face Tom. He sat, as usual, at his own table just inside the door, close enough to talk to someone at the end of the other table, not a part of them and not alone. I had to walk past Tom, then walk past the long table seating six men. A round of “Hiya, Jackie” came from the long table.
“Morning, boys,” I said as cheerily as possible. I didn’t move closer to chat; I went straight to the counter, where the waitress was already pouring my coffee in a Styrofoam cup. I looked at the pastries under the glass, wishing I didn’t have to buy one. It was my routine. I selected one, and while the girl wrapped it, I turned around and looked at Tom.