“Maybe he didn’t hear you.”
“Oh, he heard me fine; he just doesn’t want to say anything.” Mrs. Donnerbauer sighed dramatically. “It’s the cross I bear.”
I didn’t say anything, either. After a moment, Mrs. Donnerbauer sighed again. I took that as a cue.
“It must have been difficult raising a girl who was so intelligent,” I said.
“Very difficult. And a little bit”—Mrs. Donnerbauer searched for a word, settled on—“frightening. Imagine trying to raise a child who’s smarter than you. It was bad enough when she merely
thought
she was smarter. But then the teachers at the school told us Alison should be in special classes because she was a genius. They tested her—they never asked me if they could, but I guess they test everybody. Anyway, they tested her, and the tests results said Alison was a genius. A genius,” she repeated as if the word made her nauseous. “It gave Alison a reason to ignore me. Suddenly I wasn’t smart enough to tell her when to go to bed or to eat her vegetables or what clothes to wear. I wasn’t smart enough to be her mother. ‘Leave me alone, leave me alone.’ Everyday it was the same thing until finally I just threw up my hands and did leave her alone.”
Mrs. Donnerbauer took time out to stare at something way above my left shoulder. I sipped coffee from the juice glass. At last she said, “I guess Alison found out what happens when you think you’re so much smarter than everyone else.”
I was amazed by the statement and flashed again on the photograph in my car. In the end, Alison couldn’t even depend on her mother.
“She used to say she was blessed,” Mrs. Donnerbauer continued. “Well, I didn’t see it. Where’s the blessing in being so different from everyone else? You tell me. I remember when she was graduated from high school—graduated three weeks before her sixteenth birthday. I was so embarrassed.…”
“Really? I would have thought you would’ve been proud.”
Mrs. Donnerbauer shook her head. “You don’t know what it’s like, having people look at you, stare at you. Having people ask you questions because your daughter is so … different. People asking how she was around the house, like if she ate strange food or something. People asking if I—if
I
—took vitamins or something when I was carrying her; if I listened to Mozart of something in the delivery room. Imagine! People. Sometimes I don’t know what to think.”
“Sometimes I don’t know what to think, either,” I agreed.
“And of course, she didn’t have any time for boys,” Mrs. Donnerbauer continued. “She was too busy doing
genius
things.”
“What about Stephen Emerton?”
“That was the one time I put my foot down,” she answered proudly. “Stephen was such a good-looking boy and smart, too. But the way Alison treated him … Well, I practically forced her down the aisle.”
“Alison didn’t want to get married?”
“Oh, of course not. That’s what
normal
people did. But I knew marriage was the best thing for her. And so …”
“Was she happy do you think?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Was she happily married?”
Mrs. Donnerbauer stared at me as if she had never heard the expression before.
“I heard that she might have been seeing someone else,” I added.
“Committing
adultery
!” Mrs. Donnerbauer was genuinely shocked.
“I heard—”
“No daughter of mine
ever
committed
adultery
. I don’t know where you got your information, young man, but you better go back and get some more, yes sir. We are Catholics in this house. Roman Catholics.
We don’t break commandments.
”
I was actually relieved to hear her denial. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Offend me? Why should I be offended because a man comes into my home and calls my little girl a
trollop!
”
“Mrs. Donnerbauer, I deeply apologize, I truly do,” I said, trying to defuse the situation. “But you have to understand that when we hear rumors like this, no matter how ridiculous, we have to look into them. It’s the courts that make us do it.”
“The courts,” she repeated and looked around, like she was searching for a place to spit. No one likes the courts. That’s why it’s easy to blame them when you get into a jam.
I tried again. “This rumor says that Alison was involved with a doctor while she worked—”
“No. No. No. My daughter would never get involved with … A doctor, you say? No. I don’t want to hear any more. I think it’s time you left.”
I rose from my chair.
“My daughter is no
adulteress.
”
I was happy to believe her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Donnerbauer.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “My child never cheated on her husband, I don’t care what that … that brute Raymond Fleck told the newspapers,” she added slowly and carefully in case I was leaving with the wrong impression.
“I never thought she did,” I agreed.
Mrs. Donnerbauer apparently had to think about that. And in the silence that ensued, Mr. Donnerbauer said one word very clearly from his chair in the darkened living room: “Holyfield.”
The word hung in the air like an unpleasant odor.
“No,” Mrs. Donnerbauer muttered.
“What was that, Mr. Donnerbauer?” I stepped toward the arch that separated the two rooms.
“Dr. Robert Holyfield,” he said, without taking his eyes from the TV screen.
“What? What? What are you saying?” Mrs. Donnerbauer pushed past me, practically running to her husband’s chair. “What are you saying? Do you know what you’re
saying
?”
Mr. Donnerbauer refused to look at her. “She was a woman like all other women,” he answered coldly.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Mrs. Donnerbauer demanded.
Mr. Donnerbauer turned his head maybe ten degrees and tilted it just enough so that he could see his wife’s face. His upper lip curled into an ugly snarl. “You know exactly what I mean, woman.” Then he just as deliberately resumed watching TV.
“You bastard!” Mrs. Donnerbauer spat at him.
Mrs. Donnerbauer’s high-pitched whine was gaining in volume behind me as I walked rapidly from the room, out the door, and into the night. I didn’t look back until my car door was open and I was sliding in.
twelve
M
innesotans. Like most Americans, are summer people. Perhaps more so than most Americans because we spend such a large part of the year without its warmth, yearning for it, planning for it. True, few people have as much fun in the snow as we do. Yet, when we recall the joys of childhood, we always think of summer.
On this particular bright, cloudless summer day, I drove with all my windows rolled down, searching South St. Paul for the Holyfield Clinic. I found it just where they said I would, a few blocks off Lafayette. It looked like a pillbox, with white concrete walls, a flat roof, and only a few windows. The parking lot was spacious and contained an inordinate number of handicapped slots; they took up all the spaces closest to the building except for one. The slot nearest the front door was reserved for
R. HOLYFIELD, M.D.
A new Lexus was parked in the space. I was tempted to “accidentally” scratch the paint with my keys as I walked by—revenge for seducing Alison. I might have, too, if not for the woman watching me as she leaned against the building and sucked on a cigarette, banished from her place of employment by Minnesota’s anti-smoking laws.
Normally the Lexus wouldn’t have troubled me. I am usually indifferent to the wealth of other people. You need to be if you’re a baseball fan. But I find it obscene that the average doctor grosses over two hundred thousand dollars a year along with five weeks of vacation, yet a third of the citizens of the United States can’t afford their services, can’t afford health care at all. Like the man said, there’s something wrong.…
With that in mind, I was surprised to find a large number of elderly patients in the waiting room. That is until I remembered that the Holyfield Clinic specialized in caring for patients fifty-five years and older. Their arthritis, hardened arteries, and respiratory ailments were Holyfield’s bread and butter. Besides, they probably all had insurance companies footing the bill, otherwise they wouldn’t have been allowed through the front door.
Getting to see Dr. Holyfield was no easy matter. I had called earlier that morning. Before I even mentioned my name and purpose, the receptionist made it clear that no appointments could be had for at least two weeks. And when I confessed that it was a nonmedical matter, well, time is money, and Dr. Holyfield was not one to squander either. That’s when I turned nasty.
“Look, lady. This is a murder investigation. Now, I can come over there at the good doctor’s convenience and chat quietly in his office, or I can send a few officers to drag him over here in handcuffs. Which would you prefer?”
Most people, especially people who are accustomed to civility, are frightened by loud voices. They shouldn’t be. Loudness, what’s that? It doesn’t mean power or strength or confidence. Usually it means the opposite. No, it’s the guy who talks softly, who looks you in the eye and says what he has to say without looking away, that’s the guy to worry about. Fortunately the receptionist didn’t realize that. Instead of calling my bluff and telling me to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine, she quickly put me on hold, forcing me to listen to a John Denver tune—how’s that for payback? She was back in less than a minute to inform me that Dr. Holyfield would see me for fifteen minutes at eleven o’clock. Don’t be late.
I wasn’t.
D
r. Holyfield was what too much money, too much education, and too much deference to his title had made him: a snob, who had little respect or appreciation for life that existed beyond the comfortable confines of his daily activities. True, I hadn’t seen him in action. No doubt he was all kindness and light. Yet I would wager my retirement fund that tree surgeons cared more for their patients than he did. At the same time, you just knew he was well loved and even adored by a whole throng of people who hardly knew him at all. Just the kind of guy to seduce a lonely, vulnerable woman like Alison.
I purposely used his first name, calling him Bob. It’s an old cop trick. It removes a suspect’s dignity and makes him feel defensive, inferior, and often dependent, like a child seeking a parent’s approval; it also lets the suspect know who’s in charge. I don’t know why this is true, but personal experience told me that it was, especially among people who expect to be called Mister and Sir and Doctor.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Taylor. I hope you appreciate that I am on a tight schedule,” Dr. Holyfield informed me after we shook hands and he examined my photostat.
“I do, Bob, and I hope to make this quick.”
Dr. Holyfield waved at a chair in front of his cluttered desk. I sat before he had a chance to—another slight.
“I haven’t much time to give you,” he informed me again and smiled. I wiped the smile off his face with my first question.
“How long did your affair with Alison Emerton last?”
He hesitated, then answered, “We did not have an affair.”
“Bob, I’m going to ask you that question again,” I said calmly. “Think before you answer. How long did—”
“I answered your ruddy question. Now, get out.”
Ruddy? Tsk, tsk. Such language from a respected medical man. “Have it your own way, Bob,” I said, only I didn’t leave the chair. Instead, I pulled a blank subpoena from my inside jacket pocket and started filling in the empty spaces. After my conversation with the receptionist, I thought it’d be wise to bring a few, just in case.
Dr. Holyfield, who was standing now, asked, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Preparing a subpoena,” I answered. “I’ll take it to the Dakota County sheriff, and he’ll take it to the Dakota County attorney, and he’ll take it to a Dakota County judge, who will stamp his approval on it, and by this time tomorrow you’ll be answering questions before the Dakota County grand jury. Ever been to Dakota County? Nice place. Long drive, though. I hope you don’t have anything planned for the day.”
Dr. Holyfield considered my words for a moment, and I wondered if I had overplayed my hand. A private investigator issuing subpoenas? Yeah, right, happens every day.
“I don’t have time for this,” he declared and moved back to his chair. “Ask your questions and be quick about it.”
“I already asked one,” I reminded him, making a production out of returning the subpoena to my pocket, trying hard not to smile in triumph.
“Five months,” he answered.
“Did it begin before Alison was married?”
“No. We had met at several health-related functions prior to her marriage,” he answered as if he was discussing a brake job. “However, we did not become … involved … until much later. Not until after her wedding. I don’t know what drew us together. Perhaps we both needed to spend time with someone who understood our problems. Alison had come to the conclusion that marrying Stephen had been a dreadful error, and at the same time I was having serious misgivings concerning my own marriage. Originally, that’s all we did: spend time together, go places, go to the zoo—I’ve lived in this state my entire life, and I had never been to the Minnesota zoo. We did not become intimate until several weeks had passed. I’m guessing we were both caught up in a fantasy that our lives were somehow different when we were together—there was no Stephen, I had no wife. In our fantasy, we were starting over, beginning our lives anew, with no attachments, no past to encumber us. Alas, it was only a silly fantasy and it ended. It ended all too soon.”