Suspects (2 page)

“I can clear that up for you,” Larry said in his jovial voice. “She's taking a shower. She wears that cap that bunches her hair over her ears. What with that and the water, she can't hear you if you shoot a gun off. Take my word for it.”

“The water's not running, though,” Mary Jane said. “And the bathroom door is wide open. The back bedroom's the only one closed.”

“Huh,” said Larry. “Well, she's got to be around somewhere. Running the washer?”

“Wait a minute, Larry.” Mary Jane looked for a place to rest the phone but, finding none, let it dangle. She had forgotten about the cellar. She opened the appropriate door, next to the stove, and peered down the stairs. The Howland basement was a cheerier one than her own, with lots of light on the floor from its high windows. She would not have hesitated to go down and look around, but she heard no sound of washing machine or dryer, and her calls of Donna's name brought no response. And Larry was waiting on a long-distance line.

She reported back to him. “Nothing's on down there.”

“Well, gee, Mary Jane, my time's all gone now, I see. I got to rush. I
will
try and find a minute later, tell her, but if not, then sometime tomorrow. We got these real late sessions—I mean, counting the change of time zones. You take care!”

He hung up before he could be made to appreciate that the real problem was not his tight schedule but his wife's whereabouts. But being annoyed made Mary Jane feel less fearful. With her newfound confidence she now crossed the hall, knocked sharply on the closed door, and called out Donna's name. She suddenly remembered an odd failure on Larry's part: when she had told him the door to the back bedroom was closed, he had not suggested she go and open it. Did that mean she wasn't supposed to? On the other hand, he hadn't said she should not, either.

She knocked again while turning the knob, and called Donna's name one more time, as loudly as ever, and then, inside the room, continued awhile to repeat it softly in a series that soon became a single prolonged whimper. But at no point did she scream, though she had never before seen blood in this abundance.

The white bedspread was a swamp of it, so supersaturated that it had overflowed, cascading onto the bedside rug below. The redness was what Mary Jane first fixed on, as being more incongruous than the nude white body lying prone on it, in it, for the body was Donna's, whereas the blood seemed altogether out of place, having no visible place of origin, Donna's back being unmarked from shoulder to heels.

Mary Jane tried to believe her friend was still alive, despite the hemorrhage, and while being incapable of coherent speech, pretended to talk to her. When she received no answer to the questions she had not been able to ask, she leaned over the bed, to the left of the protruding feet and ankles, trying to avoid the once fluffy rug that squished with blood. Donna lay at a right angle to the axis of the large bed, queen- or king-size or whatever they called them; Mary Jane had slept her entire marriage in a just plain double. She touched Donna's shoulder cap now and was relieved to find it warmish, certainly not really cold.

Once again she tried to speak, addressing the bloody tangle of hair above the serene smooth white groove of spine. She wanted to say she'd try CPR before calling anybody: you could never tell. But it was useless. She could not produce a sound. Not even her strenuous gasps for air seemed audible.

She tried one-handedly to roll Donna over to the supine. But the body had too much inertia to be moved, and it was glued down by the dense blood. Then at last, with a heroic effort, using both hands and putting her weight into it, she succeeded.

Donna, face up, was inaccessible to the kiss of life. Her upper teeth were embedded to the gum in her lower lip. Below her chin she was all raw flesh, with a continuous open wound from groin to breastbone.

Mary Jane remained soundless. Her emotions had been instantaneously annealed by the horror before her. In the next moment she was down the hall and at Amanda's bed. The child at least must be saved. But when she pulled the pink blanket aside, she saw that Amanda's delicate throat had been slit from just below one pale little earlobe to the other.

The morning began with Lloyd Howland's butter-fingered loss of an electric razor to a washbasin full of water. The fuse blew, and the shaver was probably permanently ruined. He could not go to his job without shaving. He was on thin ice at work for many reasons, and had already been chided for a recent appearance with a stubbled chin, which he had failed to get the boss to accept as being in the current fashion of many popular young film stars. “This is not a movie, Howland. This is a supermarket. Also wear a clean shirt tomorrow. Stay in back today. Keep off the floor.” So he unloaded produce from the big tractor-trailers that pulled around to the rear of the shopping center. He hated truck drivers on the highway and liked them even less close up. For one thing, they were habitually overweight, and Lloyd, himself constitutionally slender irrespective of diet, had an instinctive contempt for anyone he saw as obese. So he was wont to wisecrack in the hearing, sometimes even into the face, of some tub of lard who had climbed down from the high cab to waddle back and unlock the truck doors, and not all who were so derided had a sense of humor about it.

“You're going to get your tail kicked one of these days,” the produce-department manager told him with obvious pleasure. “You got it coming.”

“Any time they want to try,” Lloyd said, “I'm available.” He thrust his jaw at the man. “Or anybody else.”

“That's really going to throw a scare into ‘em,” sardonically murmured this narrow-shouldered, balding person. “Now get back to work.”

Lloyd would have liked to smash him in his smirking face. But he had already lost one job since the year began, and his duties here were easy enough to shirk. Not to mention that if he took on everybody whom he found objectionable, he would have to fight most of the world. So he had grimaced hatefully but pretended to do as ordered.

He had the definite feeling he could not get away with showing up unshaven so soon after the episode of last week, even though he now had a genuinely reasonable excuse. When they were against you from the start, they would never grant you a single point.

So he went to the pay phone down the block and got through to his boss. “Jack, Howland. I'm calling in sick today.”

“No, you're not,” Jack responded crisply. “You're calling in to quit.”

“No, I'm really sick. I mean it.”

“Have it your way. I was just letting you save face. So you're fired.”

“Fired?
What the hell for?”

“You figure it out, Howland. You haven't put in a decent day's work here since you were hired, and you called in sick how many times in three weeks? If you're in that bad a condition, you ought to retire. I'm making it convenient for you.”

Lloyd slammed the phone into its chromium hanger. Well, he had tried, and see where it had got him. He was on the downward route again, three weeks after beginning the latest effort to climb out of the hole. Nobody even knew he was back in town. His plan had been to collect a paycheck or two, stay off anything stronger than ice cream, buy some presentable clothes, and show up one Sunday soon over at 1143 Laurel with an armful of presents for everybody: flowers for Donna, a classy bottle of wine for his brother, and of course all kinds of toys for Mandy, dolls and whatever else little girls liked: he'd ask a female clerk in the toy store, but only after explaining that he legitimately had a niece, so he wouldn't be accused of being a potential child molester. He had always to stay on guard, being the kind of guy many people instinctively thought the worst of.

And time did not diminish the effect of any injustice he had ever suffered. A dirty deal tended to get worse in memory. Jack Duncan, the produce-department manager, would not be forgotten, though Lloyd was aware, if precedent meant anything, that he was unlikely to have the opportunity to take revenge on the man, Duncan being the sort to call the law on the slightest pretext, and if ordinary people were inclined to detest Lloyd on sight, make that to the tenth power for cops.

He was in a foul mood as he arrived at the supermarket in late morning to collect what money was due him, but he was also under control until he went to the accounting department in the mezzanine office and found that not only was a check not waiting for him there, but Jack Duncan had thus far failed to notify Personnel of the dismissal.

Lloyd went down and found the man, with his bow tie and name-plate, out on the floor near the lavish array of tomatoes—regular, plum, aquacultured, cherry, yellow, organically grown, imported Israeli, sun-dried—that was his self-described “baby.”

“They don't have my money ready. That mean I'm not fired?”

“You're dreaming,” Duncan said. “They'll send you a check when they get around to it.” He was drab against the background of brilliant red fruit.

“If you fire a person, you should pay him right away,” Lloyd said sullenly. He brought his hand out of his pants pocket.

“You must be an authority on the subject,” Duncan said wryly, but then looked at what Lloyd had brought from the pocket and blanched. He took a step backward, pressing himself against the display of tomatoes, and stared wildly around the store. As it happened, no customers or staff were nearby at the moment. “Oh no, please—!”

“What's your problem?” Lloyd asked, feeling good for a change as he extended the closed utility knife. “I preferred this to the box cutters you got back there: opens cartons better. I took it from Hardware. It wasn't pilfering: I only used it in the store. Here, I'm giving it back.”

“Get out,” said Duncan, recovering his courage.

“Here, take it,” Lloyd said. “Look, the blade isn't even out. How could I have carried it in my pocket otherwise? It's the store's property. Take it.”

“I'm calling Security,” said Duncan.

“All right,” Lloyd said. “I tried.” He returned the closed knife to his pocket. “You dirty little yellow bastard.” He turned quickly and left the store. At that moment he did not care about his money, but neither did he feel the demands of his pride had been satisfactorily answered by simple name-calling. He needed the ear of a woman who had some affection for him, a characterization that could not be applied to any with whom he had ever been intimate. This was an unpropitious time to make his peace with Donna. He had to do some drinking first to work up his nerve, but not get so drunk that his sister-in-law would not let him in the house.

Yellow tape had been stretched around the entire property at 1143 Laurel, and the van of the crime-scene team was at the curb in front, along with many police cars, marked and unmarked. Vehicles sent by the local TV channels and the daily paper were kept at the end of the block. Uniformed officers were on hand to restrain the news-people and the gathering crowd that had begun as the immediate neighbors but had gradually attracted those from nearby streets and others in transit.

Dr. Pollack, an assistant medical examiner, had made a preliminary examination of the bodies, and they were taken to the morgue, to be thoroughly autopsied in the lab upstairs. Pollack's estimate of the time of death was any time from six to two hours before he arrived on the scene of the crime. He would not know for sure until the body was on his steel table—and perhaps not even then, for forensic medicine was not mathematics, as he was wont to remind complainers. With her smaller body, the little girl's death was even harder to time: so little flesh cooled quickly. The cuts had been made by a very thin and very keen blade, perhaps a straight razor or the like, or so it seemed.

Photographs had been taken before the bodies were touched by anyone in an official capacity. The detectives for whom the case was the primary assignment had looked at the bodies and walked through the house, again without touching any surface, and promptly left the premises to the Identification team, who would gather evidence and fingerprint the place.

One of the members of the Ident team was a blond and very fit-looking officer named Daisy O'Connor, whose policeman father, a year before his retirement a decade and a half before, had been given as partner a rookie by the name of Nick Moody. Moody was now, with his partner, Dennis LeBeau, the detective assigned to the Howland murders.

Moody, a detective first grade, was the senior man, but after putting a few questions to Mary Jane Jones on the subject of her discovery of the bodies, he turned the job over to LeBeau and joined the other detectives in interviewing the rest of the neighbors. It was Moody's theory, and not LeBeau's, that because of Dennis' headful of curls and big brown eyes he was more successful with the female subjects. But it was Moody, not LeBeau, who was always on the prowl. LeBeau was very married, whereas Moody was twice divorced. The breakup of his second marriage, the year before, had impoverished him financially and emotionally.

Without the sum the store owed him, Lloyd's funds were insufficient for the drinking he wanted to do. Not for the first time in his life, he thought about getting money in a criminal way. The problem was
how
. He had done some shoplifting as a kid and been picked up for it a few times, but was always put on probation or simply warned. All that he had been caught at as an adult was employee pilfering, for which the punishment was, at worst, being fired. Therefore he had no police record. He took that fact into consideration whenever he thought about raising funds by illegal means. He hated cops and did not wish to give them an advantage over him. Also, he feared losing control of himself under certain conditions. It had never yet happened, but he believed he had the capacity for it. Could he trust himself to keep within bounds if he tried to mug someone who resisted violently? There were fools who fought back with bare hands against an armed adversary. He should probably avoid crimes against the person. He could not stand being shamed. He did not consider what happened with the produce manager as being personally degrading, but it would have been had he not backed the man against the tomatoes.