The Devil's Menagerie (26 page)

“Yes … I told you that on the phone.”

“What can you tell me about them?” Movie cops spoke more harshly and aggressively, Dave thought. Barton MacLane was the prototype in the film noir of the forties.

Dave reviewed his mental portraits of the two students. “They weren’t kids, Detective. They were young women, mature in different ways.”

“How’s that?”

“Edie Foster was … sexually mature. Outgoing, very self-confident, popular. A very attractive young woman, perhaps a bit spoiled, like a pretty girl who’s always had her own way because she was so pretty. Not an especially good student, because she only worked at what interested her.”

“Did you give her a good grade, Doctor?”

“A ‘C,’ I believe. Passing grade, average performance. She could have done better.” Dave frowned, wondering about the significance of the question. Wondering what the detective was looking for from him. “Natalie Rothleder was quite different. Brilliant student, hardworking, intense, ambitious—partly, I think, because she had much lower self-esteem than Edith Foster.”

“Attractive, too, was she?”

“Yes, very. More than she realized, I think.” Dave paused, watching the slow unreeling of the tape in the small recorder. “What are you getting at, Detective Braden? You know these were both attractive young women, inviting targets for a sexual psychopath.”

“That who you think killed them?”

“I’m not a detective,” Dave answered quietly. The detective’s cryptic style was becoming irritating. “I understand both women were raped and brutalized. Sexual psychopathy seems to be a fairly obvious assumption.”

Braden nodded without apparent interest. “Do you ever go out with your students, Dr. Lindstrom?”

Dave stiffened, suddenly wary. After a moment he said, “No. Aside from the fact that I’m happily married and it’s against this college’s faculty rules, I wouldn’t put myself into that kind of awkward and compromising situation.”

“We all have good intentions, Doctor. Sometimes we don’t always live up to them.”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, Detective, but I never went out with Edith Foster or Natalie Rothleder. I never met either of them outside the normal college setting.” He flashed again on the Foster girl sitting in the front row, crossing her legs, smiling when the movement caught his eye. “Sometimes students fantasize about their teachers. It’s normal. I’ve never taken advantage of that.”

“Very commendable,” Braden said dryly. Abruptly changing direction, he asked, “You’re a volunteer firefighter?”

“That’s right.”

“You were involved in fighting that fire in the hills a couple weeks ago? Specifically, the Friday night the Foster girl was killed?”

“Yes, I was. So I couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with her murder, could I?” Dave hated hearing the quiver in his voice, hated even more to have the homicide detective hear it—or the tape machine record it.

“You were relieved for part of that evening.”

The recognition that the detective’s questions were more than casual—that he had actually been investigating Dave’s movements that night—chilled him like an icy wind.

“I went home for a few hours to rest, be with my family. I was back on the lines a little after midnight.”

“Uh-huh. No one remembers actually seeing you on the lines after midnight Friday, Doctor, or even on Saturday.”

“That’s ridiculous. Ask one of the fire captains. I know there was a lot of confusion that night, but … our crew boss would remember me. I was working with him late Friday night and all Saturday morning, cleaning up some hot spots.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jim Roget. He’s a Navajo Indian.”

Braden glanced at him curiously. “An Indian?”

“He’s probably gone back to Arizona. There were about a dozen Navajo firefighters came over that week. He’ll confirm what I’ve told you.”

“That’s fine, Doctor, that’ll help a lot.” Braden smiled for the first time during the interview. It was not a friendly smile, Dave thought. Polite, nothing more. “I guess that’s all for now. Oh, by the way, you were teaching a class this past Friday night? The night the Rothleder girl was hit?”

Dave’s momentary relief dissolved like steam on a heated windshield. “It was a graduate school seminar in cinematography.”

“What time was that, Doctor?”

“From seven to nine.” Dave’s angry defensiveness was gone, replaced by bewilderment. “It was over about a quarter to.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was told.”

Braden punched a button, stopping the tape. Both men stared at the recorder for a moment, as if it exercised a special fascination. Then Braden picked it up. “Thanks for your cooperation, Dr. Lindstrom. I’m sure I’ll be talking to you again.”

“For God’s sake!” Dave burst out. “You can’t really suspect me of doing these things. Whatever gave you that crazy idea?”

Braden’s skeptical brown eyes didn’t waver. “We have to look at everything, Doctor. It’s routine. We may have a serial killer on this campus of yours. I can’t worry about hurting someone’s feelings.”

He surveyed the organized chaos of Dave’s small office, as if it might reveal its occupant’s potential as a serial murderer. Then, as if it were an afterthought, he murmured, “Were you in the service, Lindstrom?”

“No,” Dave said curtly, adding, “I was fifteen when the Vietnam War ended. I was lucky.”

“Ever been to Europe?”

Once again the change of direction left Dave bewildered. “No. We hope to go someday.”

“Yeah,” Braden said, preparing to leave. “Don’t we all?”

*    *    *

“I
DON’T BELIEVE
it!” Glenda exclaimed.

“He was serious.”

“But that’s ridiculous! Where did he get such an idea? Just because you had both of those students in your classes … my God, are they interviewing all of those girls’ teachers?”

“I don’t know. He said it was just routine.”

Glenda stared at him. She checked the meat loaf in the oven, turned the temperature down and went to the stove to stir the gravy. For the moment she and Dave were alone in the kitchen. She had sensed that something was troubling him the moment he came home. Although he was a quiet man, there were nuances in his silences. She supposed that sensing such moods was part of what being married meant. “But you didn’t think it was.”

“No,” Dave frowned. “The Foster girl … she made kind of a play for me.”

“And did you play?”

“No,” he answered quietly, meeting the inquiry in her eyes. “Never. Not once. Not Edie Foster or anyone else.”

“Edie?”

“That’s what everyone called her.”

“I’m sorry,” Glenda said, contrite. She shivered. “That’s the way it works, isn’t it? That’s the way the police think. Someone must have told that detective about Foster liking you, and he immediately put the worst possible twist on it.”

“As long as
you
don’t,” Dave said. “Once he talks to Jim Roget, the whole question becomes moot.”

He wasn’t quite sure why that prospect was not as reassuring as it should have been.

T
HE KITCHEN WAS
the room Dave and Glenda liked best in their early California house. It was large, bright and spacious, with ample space for the antique harvest table Glenda had found at the antique swap meet in Long Beach five years ago. Long before developers came up with the idea of a “family room,” the old-fashioned large kitchen was a gathering place, a debating forum, a place for snacking, doing homework, carrying out projects, playing
Hearts
or
Monopoly
, or sitting quietly over a cup of tea. This kitchen was that kind of room.

On this Thursday night the usual warm family atmosphere was missing. Both parents were preoccupied. Richie ate in silence and picked at his food, even though meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy was one of his favorites. Only Elli seemed oblivious of the tension that made the air seem heavy, ready to hum and crackle if someone struck a spark.

Someone did.

Toward the end of the meal Richie put down his knife and fork and stared at his half-eaten dinner. He poked at the last of his meat loaf. The gravy on his plate was getting cold, congealing around some uneaten carrot slices, which sat in the gravy like orange lily pads in a muddy pool. Richie looked up at his parents, who sat across from him at the long table.

“I wanta go see my dad,” he blurted out.

His parents stared at him, their expressions frozen. He might as well have shouted “Shit!” at the top of his voice, Richie thought. He was nervous about their reaction, but now that the words were out he was stubbornly determined.

“What’s he mean, Daddy?” Elli asked. “I can see you.”

“He means …” Glenda faltered. “Oh, Richie, you don’t know what you’re asking.”

“He’s my dad, isn’t he? I mean … my real father.” Richie avoided Dave Lindstrom’s eyes. “He’s come back to see me—he said so.”

“It’s not possible,” Glenda whispered. Her face was pale. Even her lips had lost their color.

“Why not? What’s wrong with my seeing him? He’s been overseas. He’s a soldier, it’s not his fault he’s been gone all this time.” His hot eyes accused his mother. “You never talk about him, you never tell me anything about him.”

Richie’s emotions were in turmoil. He was aware of Kill’s wide-eyed wonder, his stepfather’s scowl, his mother’s stricken eyes. What was so wrong about everything? Why did he suddenly feel as if he couldn’t breathe? Why did his heart hammer in its cage like a frantic hamster clawing to get out?

“You heard your mother,” Dave said in a grim, uncompromising tone Richie had rarely heard from him. “You can’t see him.”

“Why not?”

“Richie, please … don’t shout,” his mother pleaded. “Think about what you’re saying. We don’t even know where your … where Ralph Beringer is staying. If he really wanted to see you, all he has to do is tell us where he is and we could talk about it.” She paused. “And don’t call him your
real
father. Your real father is the man sitting across the table from you, the one who’s been there for you all the years while you were growing up, who’s loved you and cared for you.”

Richie’s face burned. He didn’t want to hurt his mother or stepfather. He was drawn toward his real father by a fascination he didn’t completely understand, a pull as mysterious and powerful as gravity.

“You don’t care about me!” he cried. “You hate him! You’ve always hated him.”

“That’s enough, Richie!” Dave said sharply.

“I’m gonna see him—” Richie choked up. He had almost let it slip out—that he knew where his father was staying. “You can’t stop me!”

“Oh my God,” his mother whispered.

“Now you listen to me,” Dave said. “What you’re feeling right now is natural. Maybe it’s even the way you should feel—but not with the way your … your father has been acting. He’s been following you and Elli behind your mother’s back … making phone calls that have scared and upset her. He’s playing nasty tricks with us, Richie, and as long as he keeps that up there will be no father–son meetings, is that clear? If he wants to start
acting
like a real father, then we’ll see. But not until then. It’s all up to … Are you listening to me, Richie?”

Richie clambered off the bench seat so hastily that his leg jarred the table, upsetting a glass of water. He saw his mother reach for the glass too late. Elli gasped aloud. The confusion and anxiety that had been building within him swelled into a bubble that burst, spilling across the table like the water from the overturned glass. “I
will
see him! You can’t stop me! It’s not right—you’re not my father! It’s not right!”

“Richie!”

The boy raced from the kitchen, escaping his mother’s anguished cry, fleeing from the awful sense that his life had changed forever in these past few minutes, that nothing would ever be the same again.

In his room he slammed the door and threw himself on his bed. He lay on his stomach, his body wrenched by sobs.

I
N THE KITCHEN
the silence was so complete that Dave could hear the kettle gurgling even though Glenda had turned it off moments earlier. Elli watched her parents with exaggerated curiosity.

“Why don’t you go in and watch TV, honey,” Glenda told her.

“I awready watched an hour before dinner.”

“That’s all right, you can have an extra half hour tonight, okay? Go on.”

When they were alone, Glenda said, “When was the last time you heard Elli complain about watching too much TV?”

“The show’s better in here.”

“You only said what you had to, Dave.”

“Did I? I’m not sure. I mean, doesn’t Richie have a right to see his father if he wants to? Do I have the right to tell him he can’t?”

“Dammit,
you’re
his father!”

“I guess not in his eyes, not now.”

“Well, I’m his mother,” Glenda retorted, “and I can say whether or not Ralph can come crashing back into our lives like this, harassing and intimidating us. You were dead right in what you said. Until Ralph stops playing nasty head games, any meeting is off limits. Period.” She paused, white lines around her mouth. “I don’t want him anywhere near Richie.”

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

“I’ve told you enough.”

The grim silence returned to the big warm kitchen. Ralph was accomplishing just what he had set out to do, Glenda thought. Turning us inside out. Playing on Richie’s confusion. Making us jump at our own shadows. And Dave certainly didn’t need this anxiety on top of what was happening in the college community. The idea that the homicide detective who had questioned Dave actually might suspect him of murder outraged her. He was the last man on earth who would harm those young women—it was absurd! The police didn’t have time to listen to complaints about a real psychopath, but they had time to hassle a decent, caring man like Dave.

Glenda felt the world shift somehow. She had caught a glimpse of something so terrible as to be unimaginable, as if the monstrous terror that gripped San Carlos was psychically linked to her family’s private horror. The perception—gone as quickly as it came—was like the first seconds of an earthquake, the ground moving beneath her feet, the sense of disorientation, the subliminal awareness of hovering at the edge of something unknown and unfathomable, over which she had no control. She could only wait helplessly for whatever was going to overtake her …