The Trophy Exchange (29 page)

Thirty-Four

Just as the highways began to clog with workers returning home after a day
’
s labor or a day
’
s wasted time, he slipped into the backyard on Poplar Street. He found the perfect window
–
the latch was not locked and shrubbery concealed his presence from neighbors on either side.

He used the larger blade of his pocket knife to pry the cheap screen out of its bottom track. Twisting the frame, he forced it out of its rightful place and leaned it against the wall. With glove-covered hands, he pressed his palms to the glass pushing upward.

He winced and froze when he heard a snap
–
one of his hands
had
caused a jagged crack to run from corner to corner on one of the bottom panes. He pulled back his hands and sighed with relief as the pane stayed in place. He pushed his fingers through the gap between the sill and the window and slid it the rest of the way open.

After crawling inside, he reached out and dragged in the buckled screen, bending it more as he forced it through the smaller opening. He closed the window and flipped the latch shut. He stood in a room used for multiple purposes. Stacks of boxes lined one wall. An ironing board and a basket of rumpled laundry stood in one corner, in the other, a dusty old exercise bicycle. There was a sense of order until he opened the closet door.

Clothing
was
jammed too tight on the bar, some of the items
had
slipped from their hang
e
rs and
were
draped over shoes on the floor. On the top shelf, a disheveled mound of papers,
T
-shirts and a miscellaneous assortment of electronic devices and household artifacts threatened to capsize with the slightest touch. He balanced the screen on the pile on the floor and closed the door.

Then, he listened. He heard the hum of traffic on the busy street a block away and the muffled squeals of children playing in a distant yard. Inside the house, he heard nothing but the quiet drip of a faucet.

He walked across the hall and took his position behind the bedroom door, rope in hand. He did not have to wait long.

The raspy sound of a key slipping into the lock sent a wave of anticipatory pleasure crawling across his skin. As he predicted, she entered the bedroom within minutes of arriving home. And
then
he ended her life.

Once she was dead, he went to the kitchen hoping to find a cast
-
iron skillet, his new favorite implement of mutilation.
To his disappointment, the only frying pans were lightweight metal unsuited to his purposes. But in the corner of the L-shaped counter, he spotted an old kettle brimming with fresh potatoes and onions. He dumped out the produce. Two potatoes and an onion rolled off the counter, bounced on the floor and wobbled before coming to a stop.

He hefted the kettle and smiled at its substantial weight. The grin remained on his face as he went back up the hall. Straddling his victim
’
s body, he raised the kettle over his head and slammed it hard into her face. He lifted it up again and heard the doorbell ring.

The rush of adrenaline made him pant. He forced his breath to slow as he eased the kettle to the floor. He crawled to the bedroom window on the side of the house, raised up and twisted the bar to shut the slats of the blinds tight.

As knuckles rapped on the wood of the front door, he moved on all fours over to the window in the front of the house and turned the slat control with even more care. The
n
he rose and peered through the small gap on the side.

He saw a woman step down from the stoop followed by a man.
It’s her. It’s Lieutenant Pierce.
He did not recognize the man but he knew it must be another police officer. His ears ached as his pounding blood rushed to his head. Anxiety jitterbugged through his body. His mouth went dry. His glove-encased palms poured out a river of sweat. His scalp crawled as if colonized by squirming bugs.

He scurried down the hall and into the living room where he looked behind the drapes, his eyes following them as they walked to the car. He saw her hand rest on the hood of the car.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
He knew the heat still lingered and fed the suspicion in her mind.

The two disappeared from his sight. He heard the murmur of their voices as they moved toward the back of the house. He took cover beside the open doorway leading into the kitchen. The knob of the back door jiggled but the lock held. He peered around the corner and saw the back of their heads as they walked past the kitchen window.

He tiptoed down the hall, stopping before he reached the bathroom door. The sound of their voices continued beyond that room. He stepped past the bath and stopped at the doorway leading to the room where he
’d
gained entry into the home.

The two outside stopped, too. He strained to hear their words but could not decipher a single one. He cast a nervous glance across the hallway to the bedroom to check and make sure his victim
’
s body was not in their line of sight. He didn
’
t think it was but he wasn
’
t sure.

He had the urge to run screaming outside and attack them where they stood. But he knew they had guns. He knew he didn
’
t have a chance in a frontal assault.
How did she find me? Or did she? Does she know I’m inside? Is this all a game
–
me the mouse, she the scruffy, sadistic cat? Or is it simply a moment of bizarre serendipity?
A bark of laughter from outside made him start.

Finally, they moved on. He crawled into the bedroom and knelt beside his victim
’
s body, frustrated that he could not yet finish what he had begun. He willed them to leave. He no longer heard their voices but he still sensed their presence.

He felt small and furry inside like a forest creature stalked by orange-vested men. His nostrils flared as if he smelled the scent of danger wafting off their skin.

He forced a long, deep inhalation through his nose, felt it fill his belly and his chest. Then he emptied it out in a slow, deep nasal exhale. A sharp rap on the wooden door jolted him out of the brief respite granted by the cleansing breath. He sucked in sharp and hard, holding every ounce inside his lungs until it hurt. He exhaled as he heard the screen door slap the frame.

He crawled to the front window, twitched the blind and watched them walk down the street. He slumped with relief and returned to his victim. Regretting the risk that prevented him from smashing her face again and again with the kettle, he pulled of
f
his work
glov
es, wiped his wet palms on his pants and slipped into a pair of latex gloves. He removed the silver and onyx ring from his pocket and traded it for the garnet on a gold band his victim wore on her right hand.

Knowing it was not safe to leave before darkness fell, he huddled in a corner, his back to the wall.
She stole my bliss and she will pay.
He drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around to hold them tight. He rested his forehead on his knees and plotted his revenge.

Thirty-Five

When they finished their canvass of Poplar
S
treet, Lucinda dropped Ted at the station.
“
I
’
ve got to pay a visit to Frances Wagner first thing in the morning. After that, I
’
ll be in to help with those calls,
”
Lucinda said.

“
The victim
’
s mother in that other homicide?
”

“
Yeah and I
’
m not looking forward to it. Where are you going tonight?
”

“
I
’
m crashing at my brother
’
s house.
”

“
You
’
re not going home?
”

“
I can
’
t deal with that right now.
”

“
But, Ted, do you think that
’
s wise?
”

“
Please, Lucinda, please.
”

“
O
kay
. Not another word. See you tomorrow.
”

A little before
eight
a.m., Lucinda pulled up to the tidy brick home of Frances Wagner. The front door opened before the doorbell finished its ring.

Frances Wagner held a hairbrush in her hand but she appeared as if she no longer needed it. She looked a lot more put together than she did when Lucinda
had
met her at the scene of her son
’
s murder. Every hair placed in perfect symmetry. Her face was a little heavy on the blush, but otherwise in impeccable workday condition. Her navy
-
blue suit and pale
-
blue blouse completed the image of a competent senior office worker.
“
Lieutenant, I
’
m just about to leave for work.
”

“
I really need to talk to you,
Mrs.
Wagner.
”

Frances frowned.
“
This morning?
”

“
If it
’
s not too inconvenient
. . .”

“
It
’
s very inconvenient, but come on in anyway.
”

They sat down on caddy-corner upholstered chairs in the living room.
“
I told the prosecutor that I was very unhappy he was not going to go for the death penalty,
”
Frances said.

This is going to be more difficult than I thought.
“
You think your daughter-in-law deserves the death penalty?
”

“
I certainly do. She shot my boy in his sleep after planning it for years.
”

“
You think she planned this? For years?
”

“
Yes, ma
’
am. I know she did. I never liked that girl from the first moment I laid eyes on her. She wasn
’
t good enough for my Terry.
”

“
She wasn
’
t?
”

“
No, she wasn
’
t and I told him so but he wouldn
’
t listen to me. Do they ever listen to their mothers?
”

“
Why didn
’
t you like her,
Mrs.
Wagner?
”

“
At first, I didn
’
t exactly know why. I couldn
’
t quite put my finger on the reason. I just knew I didn
’
t. So I called up Lorraine
–
she
’
s my cousin. She does a lot of that genealogy stuff. What she dug up explained it all.
”

“
What was that?
”

“
I told Terry he was making a big mistake marrying a Negro girl.
”

Lucinda felt a jarring sensation as if she
was
slipp
ing
into another dimension
,
strains of the
The Twilight Zone
theme drifted through her head.
“
Terry wanted to marry a black woman? What black woman?
”

“
Julie Carr, that
’
s who. Take a good look at her
,
officer, it
’
s obvious.
”

Julie
’
s dark hair, pale face and green eyes materialized in Lucinda
’
s mind.
“
Julie Wagner?
”

“
I don
’
t want my son
’
s name associated with her, Lieutenant. But yes
–
Julie Carr. Lorraine found that little tidbit. Julie
’
s great-great-grandparents came to this country from Africa. And her family
’
s passed for white ever since.
”

“
Africa?
”

“
Yes. Lorraine even found the original document of their entry into the United States with the name of the ship they came in on.
”

“
O
kay
, they emigrated here from Africa. That doesn
’
t mean they
’
re black.
”

“
Oh, please, Lieutenant. I
’
m not that stupid. I
’
m sure a lot of people fell for that line over the years. But not me. I told Terry that I might want grandchildren real bad but not bad enough to want no mongrel grandchildren. I told him if he marries that Negro, he
’
d best not be bringing any of his offspring around to my door.
”

This woman is nuts.
“Mrs.
Wagner, we
’
re getting way off track here.
”

“
I don
”
t think so. That
’
s why she killed him
–
because he
’
s white. Her and her mother planned it all out. They hate white people. I know they hate me.
”

Oh, gee, why would they hate the mother-in-law from hell?
“Mrs.
Wagner, you are aware, aren
’
t you, that there is evidence your son physically abused his wife? There are photographs and numerous police visits to support that.
”

“
Oh, don
’
t tell me you
’
re falling for her sob story. If Terry laid a hand on that woman, it was because he had to.
”

“
He had to?
”

“
She was a Negro, Lieutenant. A white-hating Negro. How else was he supposed to keep her in line?
”

Bile surged in Lucinda
’
s gut leaving an ugly metallic taste in the back of her throat.
This explains a lot of things, including why Terry didn’t want any children and why he was not reluctant to contemplate murdering his own unborn child.
“
Thank you for your time,
Mrs.
Wagner.
”

“
You tell that
d
istrict
a
ttorney I want the death penalty. And I want him to arrest Julie
’
s mother.
”

“
I
’
ll do that,
Mrs.
Wagner.
”

Lucinda flew past the
d
istrict
a
ttorney
’
s spluttering secretary. She burst into Reed
’
s office without knocking.
“
Lower the damn charges against Julie Wagner.
”

“
Lieutenant, good morning. How are you today?
”

“
I was better before I had a little chat with Frances Wagner.
”

“
And
. . .?”

“
Lower the damn charges. Frances is a racist pig who wants the death penalty for Julie and wants you to arrest Julie
’
s mother for conspiracy in the murder of
her son.
”

“
Racist? What does racism have to do with this case?
”

“
Frances Wagner thinks her daughter-in-law is black.
”