Open Season (7 page)

Which brings me back to my Realtor friend, Gail, the only reason I might have interrupted my monk-like solitude and scrambled Spam.

One of Brattleboro’s peculiarities is that it has become a retirement village for sixties flower children—“trust-fund hippies” and “granolaheads,” as we used to call them. Initially flocking to locally resented communes, attracted no doubt by the quaint woodsiness of the state, this vanguard of “creeping vegetarianism”—to quote one alarmed member of the Holstein Association—gradually grew older, cut its hair and, with values mostly intact, joined the homegrown establishment. The result was a leavening of the town, setting it apart from other has-been industrial centers. Mixed in with the beer dives and neocowboy bars were health food stores and vegetarian restaurants. Kids named Sheela, Alayna, and Charity ran up and down the streets, while their parents became business leaders and declared Brattleboro a nuclear-free zone. My fondness for this crowd wasn’t based on any Berkeley-born nostalgia, however. It was firmly attached instead to one of its leading citizens.

Gail Zigman had followed the above recipe word for word, arriving in Marlboro, near Brattleboro, in the mid-sixties to join a commune. Long-haired, free-loving, pot-smoking, and more involved in the lives around her than I’d ever been at her age, she eventually tired of communal life, moved into town and went through the gentle and predictable transformation from antiestablishment outsider to successful Realtor and selectman. She was also on every committee possible, from day-care to arts council to Ban-the-Bomb. She and I had been lovers for the past several years.

For two people supposedly committed to their community, we showed remarkable restraint regarding each other. Ours was a balancing act with both of us keeping the seesaw level. When one pushed for closer involvement, usually because of outside troubles, the other counterpushed. The irony was that life’s traumas, so routinely counted on to bring people together, forced us apart. We cared for one another and showed it as much as we dared, but our separate independencies had, over the years, become too valuable to give up. We were a perfect match, both too old and too self-centered to change our ways. Frank called us roommates without a room.

I threw out the junk mail, piled the bills on my desk, and picked up the phone.

“Hello, Joe,” she answered before I’d said a word.

“How did you know it was me?”

“You’re the only one I told when I’d be back.”

I liked that. “How was New York?”

“As usual; awful and lovely.”

“And your parents?”

“Awful and lovely. Dad gave me a ‘how-to’ book about finding a way out of mid-life crisis, and Mother and I had our annual boy-talk. You’d never have guessed I turned forty two months ago. How was your Christmas? And what’s Leo up to?” Leo was my brother, and an endless source of fascination for Gail.

“He’s dating a wild woman who dyes her hair green and drives a Corvette. She runs a Sunoco station she picked up in a divorce. According to Leo, she doubled the business the first summer because all she wore were grease-covered hot-pants and a halter top. Trade falls off in winter. I like her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Ginny. She’s a tough thirty-five, which makes her Leo’s junior by a mile.”

“I’m your junior by a few years.”

“Yeah, but you don’t drive a Corvette or wipe a dipstick on your butt. This woman could be the death of him.”

“What’s your mother think of her?”

“She’s amused, but she won’t admit it.”

“Is this serious with Leo?”

“Good Lord, no. He’s more serious about her car. She’s just part of the package, and a rather athletic one at that, according to him. But you know Leo. He’s happy the way he is.”

“Seems to run in the family. What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Same as tonight—nothing.”

“You want to come over?”

“Now?”

“No, I’m sorry,” and I could tell from her voice that she was. “I meant tomorrow. I have homework to do tonight. But I do want to give you a squeeze.”

“You got a date.” I hung up the phone and sat there for a while, my feet on my father’s old rolltop desk. If ever there was loneliness, this is when it hit. Sexually, our arrangement was perfection—once we’d built up a hunger, we could always take care of it. But times of friendly noninvolvement, of watching television in one room while she read peacefully in the other, didn’t happen. Those belonged with memories of Ellen. Of course, that hadn’t been perfection either, any more than this was, but the rationalization didn’t comfort. It truly was a world in which every up side had a down.

I got up and turned on the television, filling the darkened room with a shimmering fluorescence. A cop show. Perfect. I went over to the window and looked down at the street. The Plymouth was parked near the corner.

MURPHY MET ME
at the door when I walked into the Municipal Building at 7:00 the next morning. “You got that jury list on you?”

“It’s in my office.” I poked my head into Maxine’s cubbyhole. She waved and handed me a sheet from the dailies box—a record of the night’s activities.

I came to a dead stop in the middle of the corridor. “Is this what’s on your mind?” I pointed at the lead item: the sexual assault on one Wendy Stiller.

“Is she on it?”

I smiled at his downcast expression. “Afraid so, Frank.”

“Shit. Let’s go to my office.” He led the way, ushered me in, and closed the door. “You may have a bit of a problem.”

“Why?”

“Kunkle was on call last night, so Capullo brought him in on this.”

“And?”

“Kunkle quote-unquote headed the Harris investigation. He got a citation, a letter of commendation and a bonus from the town manager. Considering his personality, he’s not going to be thrilled with this jury thing. He’s going to think you’re out to get him.”

“I’m not the one going after the jury.”

“I know that, for Christ’s sake. But you’re going to want to talk to this girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So what are you going to tell Kunkle? And don’t give me what you gave DeFlorio yesterday. He pestered the hell out of me trying to find out why I supposedly told you to interview Wodinsky.”

“Wodiska.”

“Whatever. Give me a break this time, will you?”

“Jesus, Frank, even a paranoid like Kunkle ought—”

He held up both hands to stop me. “You know that. I know that. I’m the den mother here, all right? I’m trying to keep everybody happy. Just tiptoe a little. Kunkle’s screwier than ever right now—home problems—and I don’t want to hear him complaining that you’ve got doubts about his handling of the Harris case.”

I gave up. “Okay. Mum’s the word.”

“Thank you. Now I’ve arranged for you to have first crack at her this morning, but Kunkle won’t be far behind.”

“I thought he had his little chat last night.”

“She had to be sedated. He didn’t get much out of her—nothing really, so get in and get out, and keep me up to date. She’s at Memorial Hospital, room three-twelve.”

· · ·

Memorial was a typical small-city hospital. A little threadbare, a few patches, not staffed by the best or the brightest, but it made up in heart what it lacked in glitzy technology. Ellen had died there, admittedly a long time ago, but if caring alone could have cured cancer, she would have pulled through.

I found Wendy Stiller sitting in a green plastic chair by the window in a four-bed room. She was the only occupant. She was dressed in a long pink terry robe and had her feet tucked under her. Her blond hair hung in a tangled mess about her shoulders. Her face was pale and hollow-looking. It occurred to me that this was the third victimized woman I’d approached in just twenty-four hours. I wondered if that meant anything.

“Hi.”

She smiled wanly. “Hello.”

“Do you feel well enough to talk a little?” I avoided introductions. The less she knew of me, the less she’d tell Kunkle when he Joe Fridayed her later.

She nodded. “I guess so.” Her voice was light and dreamy.

I sat down on the bed near her chair. She was quite pretty, in her late twenties, not slim in a high fashion sense but not fat either—the kind of woman they choose to advertise laundry soap. “Can you tell me what happened?”

She turned away to look out the window at the snow-covered trees. She didn’t answer for a few seconds. When she did, the softness of her voice was almost lost to the building’s own gentle murmurs.

“There was a man inside my apartment when I got home last night.”

“What time was that?”

The answers came slowly, as if each one had to be gingerly coaxed to shore. “About midnight. I’d been out on a date. The door was locked. I don’t know how he got in.”

“Did your date come in with you?”

“No.”

“What did you do after saying good night?”

“I went straight to the bedroom.

“And he grabbed you?”

She nodded, just perceptibly.

“He was hiding?”

“Behind the door.”

She hunched her shoulders a bit and paused. I didn’t interrupt.

This wasn’t the first conversation I’d had like this, and I knew it might take time, Kunkle or no Kunkle. She took a deep breath. “He told me to get down on my knees and then he covered my mouth with some tape. I could see him in the mirror on the bathroom door. He was all in black—pants, shirt, ski mask, everything.”

Again she stopped, sighed, and shifted in her chair. The last long sentence seemed to have tired her. “What happened then?” I tried to make my whisper match hers.

“He told me to get in the shower… Tied my hands to the shower head…”

A half minute passed.

“Did he turn on the water?”

“He asked me if the temperature was all right.”

“Did he touch you other than to tie you up?”

“No… He turned the water off and looked at me… Then he took my clothes off.” Again she stopped. I could hear the traffic outside. In the window’s reflection, I saw the glistening of tears on her translucent cheek.

“Would you like to take a break?”

She shook her head, but she didn’t speak again for a full minute. When she did, she faltered but kept on, a runner committed to finishing. “He took my clothes off and rubbed soap all over me. He left it on.”

Another pause, another deep breath. “Then he played with my nipple. With his finger. That’s how I knew who he was.”

That took me by surprise. “You knew him?”

“Yes. His name is Manny Rodriguez.”

“How do you know?”

“We served on a jury together once. He had a tattoo on the back of his hand. An American eagle.”

“What did he do then?”

For the first time, she turned and looked at me, her face grief-stricken and baffled, the tears now dripping off her chin. “Nothing. He left. Why did he do that?”

I patted her shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ll try to find out. Did you get along with him when you were on the jury together?”

“I talked to Mr. Phillips most—he was nice.”

“And you never saw Rodriguez after the trial?”

“Once. He works at a glass shop on Canal. I saw him there.”

“Had he offered you a deal or something?”

“I didn’t even know he worked there. We just talked.”

“How long ago was this?”

“I don’t know; a year maybe.”

“And the conversation was okay?”

“We didn’t have much to say.” She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, and I got up and handed her a box of Kleenex from the bedside table.

“Are you going to be all right, Miss Stiller?” She blew her nose and nodded. “There’ll be a policeman who will come to visit you soon, and he’ll probably ask you many of the same questions I just have. His name is Willy Kunkle.”

“I met him last night, but they gave me something that made me too sleepy.” Her voice was stronger.

“Well, he’ll be back. Is that all right?”

“Yes. I feel better now. Thank you.”

I rose and headed for the door. “There is one last thing.”

“Yes?”

“We are going to pick up Manny Rodriguez, but until we get his side of the story, none of us is absolutely positive he was the man who assaulted you.”

“It was his tattoo.”

She said this in the same flat voice. I returned to her and crouched by her chair. “I realize that, but it may not have been his hand. I know that sounds crazy, but just lately we’ve had a couple of things like this, where someone pretends to be someone else. All I’m saying is that Rodriguez may be innocent.”

She looked confused. “All right.”

“The reason I bring it up is that the newspaper is always hot to follow up a story like this one. They’ll try to find out and interview you. So if you mention Rodriguez’s name and he turns out to be innocent, he’ll have a tough time with it. You will, too, of course. We’ll do our damnedest to keep what happened to you private, but secrets are hard to keep unless everyone cooperates.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

I squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

I sent a nurse in to check on her and called Murphy from a pay phone. I told him Wendy Stiller’s story. “I know Willy’s got his problems, but there’s no way I’m going to sit around waiting for him to waltz in and do what I’ve just done before rounding up Rodriguez. The guy might have one foot on the bus right now, if he’s still in town.”

Murphy spared me the problem. “I called Kunkle and told him that she’d asked to make a statement and you were hanging around with nothing to do. He didn’t like it, but he swallowed it. I’ll send him to pick up Rodriguez and you file a report to back me up. Once we’ve got the guy downstairs, I’ll make sure you get a crack at him.”

“Tell Kunkle to be quiet about it, okay? I think I got Stiller to clam up with the news boys. The less they get, the better.”

“Amen.”

I hung up. A friend of mine—a former cop—once told me I’d get a lot more money and a lot less grief if I went into the security business as he had done. I’d answered I could live without the corporate politics. He’d laughed.

Rodriguez hadn’t left town. Kunkle found him at work, contentedly etching frost curlicues on a custom mirror. On first mention of Wendy Stiller’s name, he didn’t even know who she was. He’d been reminded dramatically by the time I got to see him in one of the basement holding cells.