Summer People (23 page)

“How did the daughter die?” asked Lisa.

“I’m just getting to that. She was in her junior year at Arizona State. During a fraternity party, she somehow ends up with three of the brothers in an upstairs bedroom. The boys were drunk, and they attempted a gang rape. Well, more than attempted. It came out in later testimony that two of them were holding her down and the third one was pulling off her clothes when she fought her way free. But in the ensuing struggle she crashed through a window and broke her neck when she hit the ground.”

“Accident!” exclaimed Lisa incredulously. “What was the accident?”

“Her falling from the window. They didn’t mean that to happen.”

“What the hell did they mean to happen?” she asked.

Marc sat back and watched. He could feel Lisa’s rage.

“Lisa, I’m just reporting what she said.” Ray continued in a conciliatory tone. “Anyway, Martinez said the girl was known as a top-quality kid—bright, attractive, a really nice girl. During the initial questioning, two of the boys told a similar story. Martinez thought the story was probably fairly close to the truth. In separate statements they said she had dated one of their brothers during her freshman year, and this guy had bragged that she was the best fuck on campus. That night during the course of a large drunken party they decided to find out.”

“And the third kid’s story?” asked Marc.

“The third kid had an entirely different story. He said the girl was a known nympho who would regularly come by and screw several of the brothers. And the night of her death that’s what happened. He also said her falling out of the window was an accident. She was just drunk and wild. His family got a big-time, criminal attorney from San Francisco to run the defense. After this attorney talked to the other boys, they changed their stories. They said that they were confused and that their statements reflected the words of their interrogators, not theirs. They also contended they had not been read their rights at the time they were arrested. And they didn’t know what they were signing.”

“Bastards,” voiced Lisa.

“Hold on, it gets worse. The attorney builds his whole defense on the notion that this girl was known to be easy and had engaged in sex with other members of the fraternity. In his opening statement he argued that no rape had taken place, and her death was the result of her reckless nature. Her mother had to listen to all of this. Martinez went on to say that this was an incredibly cruel and inaccurate portrayal. She also said that in recent years several members of this fraternity had been involved in date-rape cases, and the brothers seemed to thrive on the reputation.

“So,” Ray paused and looked out at the lake for a moment,

“sometime while the defense was presenting their case, she lost it. She started yelling that she would kill them all. Martinez said it took several officers to finally restrain her and get her out of the courtroom. She was hospitalized two or three months. But even after she was released she wasn’t able to get her life under control. She started drinking. Martinez said her friends got her to enroll in several substance abuse programs, but nothing worked. Eventually she lost her job and dropped from view sometime during the fall or winter. Martinez was very concerned about her and had tried, without luck, to track her down.”

“The boys,” asked Lisa. “Were they convicted?”

“Well, Martinez said that the defense team did a brilliant job. They tore a young prosecutor apart—it wasn’t a fair match. She said that if the jury had seen the brutally beaten body, they wouldn’t have believed any of the story. But they didn’t. And even though the case became a cause célèbre with the University’s women’s groups, the boys were found innocent. The father who put up the money for the defense was quoted in the press as saying that he was glad that his son was free of a felony conviction because he wants to become a lawyer.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding,” said Lisa.

“The system failed,” said Ray. “But it seems justice prevailed in the end.”

“How?” asked Lisa incredulously.

“Well, there is a footnote to the story. Martinez said that afte the boys got off, their fraternity decided to throw a big acquittal party. It was really sick. They even had T-shirts made up with the Sigma-whatever Fraternity Spring Acquittal Party printed on them for the brothers and their dates to wear. Anyway, the three boys were leading a procession out to the hall they had rented for the party. They were in a Jeep and the driver lost control on a curve and flipped it. The driver was dead at the scene, a second boy died later, and the only survivor is a paraplegic.”

The three of them sat in silence for a while, looking out at the water. Finally Lisa said, “It’s a horrible, sad story—the whole thing. But Ray, who is the woman? You’re going to tell us, aren’t you?”

“Why not? The woman is Prudence Reed. She now has a hyphenated name, Prudence Reed-Murphy.”

No one said anything for several minutes. Finally Marc asked, “What do you do now?”

“First I need to find out if she’s still in the area. But as you know, I don’t have a case; all I have is a possible motive.”

“And you don’t have any evidence that connects these three, or possibly four boys—men—to Prudence’s rape, do you?” Lisa asked.

“No, only that they are about the right age, and I might be able to develop evidence that they knew one another during those years,” said Ray.

“You only have one murder, Randy Holden. And there you don’t have a weapon. The other two look like accidents. You don’t have any hard evidence that foul play was involved in those deaths?” Lisa said.

“Well, no. But I have some theories….”

“So what are your theories?” Lisa insisted.

“Well with Robert Arden, that’s the one who drowned, Prudence could have enticed him out in a canoe and then capsized him with a power boat.”

“But you don’t know that she had access to a power boat, do you?” she pressed.

“No, but you wouldn’t have to check very many docks to find one with the keys. You know that’s true. And we don’t know who she might be in contact with; she might have been able to get a boat.”

“That’s still a long reach. Do you have anything else?” she asked.

“Well, a little more. A couple of days after Roger Grimstock died, a farmer in Aral complained that he was sure that someone had been joy riding in his snowplow or at least stealing gas.”

“Snowplow,” said Marc incredulously.

“Well, it’s not really a snow plow. It’s an old pickup truck with a snowplow attached to the front end. He has another newer truck; he just uses this one for snow so he doesn’t have to take the blade off. Anyway, he called and said someone had used his truck. I stopped by and talked with him, an old guy, must be in his eighties. He said the truck, it was parked behind the barn, had been moved and some gas was burned or stolen. He said he always topped off the tank. But when he started the truck, about a quarter of the tank was gone.”

“That’s all?” asked Marc.

“Well, there is a little more. To humor him I went over and checked the truck. The blade on the snowplow had some of the rust scraped off it in a couple of places like it might have been used to push something. I pointed this out to him and asked him if he had used the truck to push anything. He couldn’t explain it; said all he had done is move the truck a few yards. I had the truck checked for fingerprints and the blade checked for traces of chrome and paint.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing, the truck was clean, only his prints. And the blade didn’t yield anything, although the deputy agreed with me that it had recently done some pretty hard bumping. But the truck might have been used the night Grimstock died.”

“Might have?” asked Marc.

“Well, he’s a real old-timer. I went to see him the day he called. He knew the truck had been moved, but he didn’t know when it might have happened.”

“So how do you tie this to Prudence?” Lisa pressed.

“Well, as you would say, Lisa, this is another ‘long reach.’ Remember the bartender at the Last Chance said one of the unusual things about that evening was that Grimstock got a phone call? What if Prudence was able to lure Grimstock out to a place where she knew she could run him off the road and make it look like an accident. It’s about ten miles from where the truck might have been stolen, and it is clearly not on Grimstock’s usual path to his cottage.”

“You’re right, it’s a hell of a long reach. You’ve got so many ‘ifs’ and ‘ands.’ And you don’t even know if Prudence was in the area when these deaths occurred. And you don’t even know if these men were involved,” Lisa reiterated with obvious irritation. “What are you going to do now?”

“I thought I might take a walk into the Kagan place and see if she is there. See if I could talk to her and find out anything.”

“Oh, Ray.” said Lisa. “Let’s, as my lit professors used to say, ‘suspend disbelief.’ Let’s say these were the men involved, and she’s clever enough to get them to the right place so she can wreak her revenge and make it look like an accident. Is it likely that a woman who is clever and resourceful enough to get away with crimes would greet you with open arms and tell all?”

“Well, what else can I do? I don’t have enough information to bring her in. What would you do?”

“Probably nothing,” said Lisa. “If I knew for sure that these men were the bastards who raped her, I would just wipe the slate clean and say that justice had been done.”

“Come on, Lisa, you know that I can’t do that. If there is a reasonable suspicion of wrong doing, I have to investigate.”

“So when are you going to see her, tomorrow?” asked Lisa.

“Have to go to Lansing tomorrow for a meeting. I’ll probably go the next day.”

“Where, exactly is the Kagan place?” she asked.

“It’s on the Otter River about three or four miles before it dumps into Lake Michigan. It’s got the National Park on the north side, and the rest of the area is surrounded by state forest. It’s probably the only place around here that can still be said to be remote. The cabin sits on the only high ground in that part of the cedar swamp. If you’ve got a survey map, I can show you.”

Marc disappeared into the cottage and soon returned with a Geological Survey Map of the area. They spread it out on the table.

“Okay, let me get oriented here,” said Ray running his hand along the shoreline until he found the Otter River. Then he traced the way back from the river. “Look, this is where the river crosses County 663. From this point it’s all swamp until about a half mile before it empties into Lake Michigan. See this little dot? That’s where the cabin is located.”

“The map shows a road,” Marc pointed.

“Not any more, map’s about thirty years out of date. See the bridge here? That was washed out years ago. Most of the road along here was washed away too.”

“When was the last time you were in there?” asked Lisa.

“About three or four years ago. A group of aging hippies were in there squatting and growing a little hemp. A public spirited citizen saw the stuff and turned them in.”

“Big operation?” asked Marc.

“Yeah, big. They had about a dozen of the scrawniest plants you’ve ever seen growing in coffee cans. Just a little home-grown for their own use, not a cash crop.”

“How did they get spotted—if it’s as isolated as you say?” asked Lisa.

“Its relative isolation makes it a favorite poaching site for some of the locals. They wanted us to get these people out of there.”

“Poaching. What are they poaching?” asked Lisa

“Deer—they live on venison most of the year long. It’s no big thing. These people are poor, and they need the meat. And, like the Indians, they only kill what they need, and they use it all.”

“Don’t you prosecute them?” asked Lisa.

“We try not to notice that it’s happening; the people involved are really bad off.”

“And when you catch a downstater with fresh venison out of season?” Lisa looked at Ray with a knowing smile.

“We prosecute their ass to the full extent of the law.”

“I don’t understand,” said Lisa, “how is it that poaching is all right, but having a few pot plants is not?”

“Can’t say that I can explain it. We have a group that thinks marijuana is the heart of all evil. They’re a bit less critical of poaching, incest, and other minor sins. And the people they turned in were outsiders. Listen, I’ve got to be going…”

“When are you leaving for Lansing?” Lisa asked.

“Before six. It’s a 9:00 meeting.”

“Will you be back in time for dinner?”

“I should be, the meetings usually are over by mid afternoon.”

“Then I’ll make dinner,” said Lisa. “No goat cheese, I’ll fry some trout. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great.”

“Let’s make it about seven; it will give you some extra time if you need it.”

Lisa laid the survey map across the hood and looked off into the valley trying to relate the features on the map to the heavily wooded land that stretched before her. Instead of trying to find a way through the swamp on the south side of the river, she had decided to follow a ridge line on the north and drop down to the river about a mile above the Kagan cabin. She pulled on a long sleeved shirt—a soft, blue cotton work shirt that she had expropriated from Marc—to help protect her from mosquitoes. Then she sprayed her hair, hands, neck, and legs with repellent. She opened the trunk of her car. She carefully loaded a pair of waders, a reel, a fishing vest and a four-piece pack rod into a large nylon backpack. Adjusting her pack, she started up the old fire road along the ridge.

Even in the late morning, the air was still heavy with mist. The forest stretched below in muted greens. Lisa could tell the path of the river by the pattern in the treetops, but the water remained hidden from view in the dark cedar below. After reaching the point where the ridge turned north, Lisa oriented the map with a compass and visually traced a route to the river. As she started her descent, she found a trail leading through the scrub oak down into the cedar swamp. It was cool and quiet in the swamp. The cedar overhead was dense, and the forest floor was dark and almost without other vegetation. The trail led to the water’s edge and there were deer prints in the mud.