Double Shot (30 page)

It was as if a hurricane had blown through the house. Everything — and I do mean everything — had been pulled apart. The new leather sectional couch Arch had told me his father had bought had been disemboweled. Its stuffing lay in piles around the room. All of John Richard’s CDs were scattered on top of the wood floor and the disheveled Oriental rug, which had been pulled up and moved halfway into the hall. The sound-system speakers Arch had told me John Richard had paid ten thousand dollars for had been ripped open. Woofers, wires, and amplifiers lay strewn about like the guts of a giant robot. The vandals — or whatever they were — had even smashed the giant TV to smithereens. Why would someone who was searching for something do that? I began to wonder about these robbers’ motives.
Arch stood, his mouth open, and took it all in. Under the detectives’ gentle probing, he began an oral inventory of what he thought had been in the room. As Reilly scribbled, I stepped carefully into the slate-covered hallway. There, men’s and women’s clothing — Sandee’s, presumable — had been unceremoniously chucked from the bedrooms. Athletic shoes, dress shoes, backless high heels with matching purses. John Richard’s Italian loafers and high-end running shoes — all these lay heaped between the clothes. John Richard’s beloved magazine articles about himself — beautifully matted and framed — had been wrenched from the walls and smashed. Why?
Blackridge, who had followed me, saw my puzzled look. “Probably looking for a safe of some kind. Ditto with the television. You can buy them hollow, to conceal stuff.”
“But . . . why the mess?” I glimpsed John Richard’s favorite Mountain West magazine article from twelve years before: “Korman Named One of Denver’s Top Twenty Doctors.” There was another “Southwest Hospital Lauded for State-of-the-Art Obstetrics Program.” What patients never knew is that htose articles, even the magazines, were commonly paid for by the doctors themselves. They were like advertising supplements, even though John Richard (and others) often clipped off the teensy-weensy printed word advertisement before having them framed and hung in their offices.
Everything he did was a lie, I thought. Everything. He never cared about other people, only himself. Without warning, I remembered John Richard’s strangely blank face when I hung up the phone and told him my grandfather had died. I’d slumped into one of our old kitchen chairs and started crying. He’d turned away and searched the refrigerator for a beer.
I gaped at the mess in the hall. Suddenly, I knew what he really was. I’d had all those courses in psychology, but I’d never seen it, not until he was dead. John Richard had been a psychopath. White collar, to be sure, but a psychopath nonetheless. Their main characteristic? They don’t feel.
I swallowed, trying to remember what I’d learned. Psychopathy resulted from a genetic disposition, not arising, researchers were now discovering, from environment. The serial rapists and killers had usually had an abusive childhood with all kinds of narcissistic injuries. But what about psychopaths born to loving, supportive environments? Yes, John Richard’s mother had been an alcoholic, but he’d still been his parents’ golden boy. And he’d gone on to use people and toss them, in an endless attempt to feel something. To get a thrill.
The male psychopath, I remembered, also was extremely adept at keeping a group of adoring women around him. The psychopath could look into their eyes and see what those women needed — affection, maybe, or flattery . ordinarily, they were women with enormous dependency needs who . . . .
None of this was making me feel really great. Still, I thought I’d know him. Understood him. But I hadn’t.
I blinked. Blackridge was asking me a question, something about a weapon.
“Did Dr. Korman keep a firearm, Mrs. Schulz?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. I didn’t need Brewster’s advice to answer truthfully. Even before the divorce, there were many things about John Richard Korman’s life that eluded me. One thing stayed constant, though. Should I tell Blackridge?
The Jerk lied. About everything. He did what he wanted, when he wanted. One of Denver’s Top Twenty Doctors. Pu-leeze.
“Nope,” Arch piped up. “No gun. Dad tried to learn how t shoot, but he wasn’t any good at, not like my mom — “
“Arch!” interrupted Brewster. He was standing by the hearth, arms crossed. He grinned widely at Arch and cocked his head. “You’re a great kid. Just answer the detectives’ questions with yes or no, okay?”
Arch’s face darkened and he stared at the floor. Here was at least one person who didn’t react well to Brewster’s charm. Still, I’d have wished that Arch’s new foray into honesty could have stopped short of mentioning my prowess on the firing range.
“I asked Blackridge, “What about the garage?”
Blackridge noiselessly pointed toward a door. “I’ll take you.”
I stepped around the pile of detritus that contained John Richard’s trashed Wall of Fame articles, more women’s shoes, and a slew of papers. Blackridge opened the garage door and gave me a wry smile. Reilly was now writing down Arch’s recitation of what should have been in the guest room, also wrecked. Brewster clearly thought Arch needed more supervision than I did, so he’d followed them down the hall.
The vandals had wreaked particular havoc in the garage. The cops had hauled away the Audi in search of evidence, but this hadn’t stopped the thugs. They’d dumped out two black plastic bags of garden waste, now a mishmashed heap of lawn clippings, dusty weeds, and small branches. From the suspended wall shelves, they’d pulled and dumped cans of paint, turpentine, weed killer, and fertilizer. As I surveyed the piles, I wondered how much of this stuff had been John Richard’s, and how much of it had belonged to the house’s owner. This was probably the last time he’d rent to a doctor.
“You have to ask yourself,” Blackridge mused as he stared at the mess, “what were they looking for? And why didn’t they get Dr. Korman to give it to them before they killed them?”
I recited my usual, “I don’t know.” When Blackridge gave me a wide-eyed look, I said, “I truly have no idea what was going on. But I’d like to stay here in the garage for a bit, if that’s okay. I won’t touch anything.”
Ever wary, Blackridge circled the chaos. When he seemed satisfied that there was no evidence for me to tamper with, nor any valuables for me to steal, he said he was returning to the living room.
I made an effort to soften my tone. “Thanks.”
When Blackridge had clomped away, I surveyed the garage, then sat on one of the cold concrete steps that led to the floor. When I took a deep breath, the mixed-up scent of spilled motor oil, mildewed grass clippings, and old paint assaulted my nose. I wasn’t particularly enjoying being in there, especially since it inevitably brought back the memory of what I’d last seen in that space: John Richard’s bloody, shot-up body.
I shuddered and closed my eyes, then allowed my mind to travel back. I didn’t want to go to the memory of John Richard dead, I told myself. I wanted to see, or rather feel, what John Richard had been feeling, the moment before he was shot. Could a man who didn’t seem to have feelings experience emotions right before he was killed?
Gooseflesh pimpled my arms. I didn’t know if I was receiving an answer or just getting ridiculously chilled in this place. With my eyes still shut, I conjured up the garage door being opened by remote. I saw my ex-husband hasten the Audi forward. I imagined John Richard checking the car’s rearview window before hitting the button to close the garage door. And then, what?
I swallowed. Because I did feel it. John Richard hadn’t felt terror . . . or rage. What I was picking up in that garage was something entirely different.
Surprise.
<18>
I walked back into the house and down the hall. While I was making my way around the piles on the way to the living room, my mind tossed up a joke we’d told in tenth-grade English. It begins with the wife of Dr. Samuel Johnson entering the library. There, she finds the great lexicographer making enthusiastic love to the parlor maid.
“Dr. Johnson!” Mrs. Johnson exclaims. “I am surprised!”
“Madame,” replies Johnson (doing up his pants), “will you never attend to your diction? You are astonished. I am surprised!”
I amended my reaction to the garage. Someone had surprised the Jerk. And he’d been astonished.
Back in the living room. Brewster Motley and Detectives Reilly and Blackridge were talking in low tones as they headed for the front door. From their downcast expressions, it was clear that bringing Arch to the scene of the crime hadn’t yielded the clues they’d hoped for. Brewster’s cell chirped. He turned toward the hearth and began listening to the details of next crisis. Amid this movement and chatter, Arch stood stock-still in the middle of the living-room mess.
“Honey?” I ventured.
“Yeah, Mom.”
But he didn’t move, and neither did I. Something was bothering him. At the front door, Blackridge twisted his head to see why no one was behind him. His wide, pasty face looked exhausted. Reilly cleared his throat and flipped to a new page on his clipboard.
Arch announced, “I think I know what the vandals were looking for.”
   
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, he ‘d told us the whole story, and the cops’ expressions had gone from downcast to gleeful. I, for one, was only glad that my sons’ rediscovered conscience had superseded his misguided loyalty to his father. What we all learned was this: Every Tuesday and Thursday, when John Richard and Arch had ostensibly been playing golf, they’d been trekking to a bank in nearby Spruce, Colorado. There, John Richard and Arch had opened a safety-deposit-box account. They’d each had keys. Since it was rare for John Richard to trust anyone, even his own son, this part struck me as odd.
“He said he couldn’t trust a soul but me,” Arch told us. “Plus, he swore me to secrecy, even though I have no idea what he was doing with the box. He made me promise not to try to get into it unless something happened to him. Anyway, I keep the key at home in my desk.”
“How’d your dad work the bank visits?” Reilly again.
“Well, first he and Sandee and I went to the country club. Sandee went up to the golf shop while Dad and I went down to the basement. Dad would let me play pool while he went to the men’s locker room to change out of his golf clothes. Then we’d go out the back door, walk around to the parking lot, and drive over to Spruce in the TT. My job was to wait in the car. After we’d done this a couple of times, I always took a book. Anyway, Dad would take the briefcase out of the trunk, and then he’d be gone for about half an hour. And I guess he didn’t just go to the bank. Once I saw him come out of the collectors’ shop.”
“Collectors’ shop?” Reilly asked.
“It’s in the same strip mall,” Arch replied. “the place used to be a movie theater, so it’s huge, the owner buys and sells comics, dolls, key chains, silver, stamps, coins, china, stuff like that. It’s a dump, but some of the kids at my new school like to go in and look around. I went with two of them last week. Didn’t buy anything, though. And Dad wasn’t there.”
I was confused. “What in the world was Sandee doing in the gold shop while you and Dad did your bank run?’
Arch exhaled. “She was supposed to stay there and browse. If anybody asked where Dad was, her job was to say he’d gone to get his golf bag. Then when he went in to get her later, he’d be carrying the golf bag, in case anyone was asking questions.”
So that was how Marla had gotten the idea that Sandee worked in the golf shop. With all that back-and-forth to Spruce twice a week, Sandee must have known the price of every golf shirt, jacket, and plus fours in the place.
“Did Sandee know what he was doing?”
Arch chewed the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. And Dad said I shouldn’t tell Sandee where we were going. She never asked, anyway. She was always nice.” He frowned. “I don’t like keeping secrets. I guess that now Dad’s gone, it’s okay to tell this one, though.”
“You did the right thing,” said Blackridge. Reilly nodded and snapped a rubber band around the thick wad of clipboard pages. Blackridge checked his watch. “Mrs. Schulz? The bank’s closed. May we have permission to take your son over here tomorrow morning? We need to get into that box.”
I looked at Brewster, who had closed his phone as soon as Arch made his announcement. Now he piped up: “As long as Mrs. Schulz and I are apprised of the contents of the box, then yes.”
Blackridge and Reilly exchanged a look. Blackridge said, “If the material in the box tends to exculpate your client, then we’ll tell you.”
“No good, gentlemen.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Counselor.” Blackridge’s tone was grudging as he and Reilly again headed toward the front door. “Sure. We’ll tell you what’s in there.”
Arch said, “Cool!”
Brewster’s smile was wide. Clearly, making cops do what he wanted was another thing Brewster loved best.
The cops agreed to pick up Arch at half-past eight the next morning. Friday, I stood by the van while Arch gathered the swim gear he’d stashed in the black-and-white. A breeze swished through the Alpine rosebushes girdling the rental house yard while I tried to think. Again, the scent of smoke made me shiver. Frances had said the fire would be contained by morning. Our town was almost nine miles from the preserve, but the smoke stinging my eyes made it seem as if the blaze was right down the street.
Okay, I reminded myself, Think. Boyd had told me the cops knew about the Smurfs John Richard was running to launder money. But if the Jerk was laundering what folks brought to him, why would he also need to visit a bank in Spruce?
Because he was skimming? Had that been why he’d been killed, and his house ransacked?
It still didn’t make sense. I stared at the curb, where pearly rose petals now dappled the shiny ravines of dust. For a moment, I thought I saw some gold glittering the gravel. But I reminded myself it was probably just pyrite, “fool’s gold,” of which we had an abundance in Colorado. And speaking of fools and their gold, I had another question. If someone was stealing from you, and you were going to kill him, wouldn’t you try to find the money first, then shoot later?
The van door slammed. Arch called, “I’m ready, Mom,” and slid into the front seat.
“How’re you doing?” I asked, once we were zooming back home.
“Okay,” he said, his voice weary. “You know who all this investigating makes me feel sorry for?” If he said his father, I was going to scream. But he didn’t. “It makes me feel bad for Tom. You see how much goes into an investigation, and you think, here Tom caught somebody who drowned somebody else, and he lost in court. No wonder Tom’s been down lately. You know, not his usual joking self.”