Murderer's Diary

The Perfect Murder-4

“Thanks,” Dana told the girl. “That must’ve been my husband with the cat. I’ve got to rush home and catch him.” She hurried out to avoid the reporter. Jeez, she thought Larry must have been acting like a jerk and managed to get himself arrested or at least taken in for questioning.

Dana remembered that Bill was the only one in the department who had studied all weekend at the library in November when President Kennedy was shot. Thank God he headed home this time. She didn’t want to be by herself all day mourning another death. This time she couldn’t call Violet and ask her to come over to keep her company. “You’ve got to come over, Violet! Somebody’s just shot Lee Harvey Oswald right on TV with all the cops standing around.” Who could she call now?

***

When Dana got home, she rushed to Bill and put her arms around him. “God, honey, I think I’m in shock. I can’t believe it yet that Violet’s gone.”

Bill pulled off Dana’s knitted cap and stroked her hair. “Why don’t you take your coat off and we can sit down and talk about it,” he said.

She put her coat away. “I really need to change first. You know how I hate these office clothes.”

“Do that later,” Bill said. He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go study in a minute.” They sat down on the couch.

“OK,” Dana said. “Tell me what happened.”

Bill squeezed her hand and told her about Larry going looking for Violet and finding her dead.

Dana pulled her hand away from Bill. “Didn’t you tell me you and Larry were both there?”

“Uh huh,” Bill said. “But that was later.”

“I don’t get it,” she said. She braced herself for trouble. There was always trouble when they talked about Larry.

Bill told her what Larry had said and explained that he wanted to see the situation for himself so they’d both gone upstairs. “Stuff like that doesn’t happen every day. I thought he might be playing a joke on me.”

She wanted to say that Larry could be a jerk sometimes, but he wasn’t a practical joker and there was no way in hell he’d joke about a violent death, but she kept quiet. It was stupid to get into an argument about Larry right now. Dana focused her mind on Violet.

“And you saw her?”

Bill squeezed her hand again. “Yeah.”

“Tell me about it. Where was she?”

He didn’t say anything.

Dana let go of Bill’s hand and shook out a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table. She shook out a second one and offered it to Bill. “Look, Bill, I’d rather hear about what happened from you than from the TV news or a newspaper.”

Bill reached in his shirt pocket and brought out his Zippo lighter and lit Dana’s Raleigh, then his. They sat there smoking and staring at each other for a long time. Finally Bill said, “I’m sorry you have to hear this at all, hon, but you’re right. It’ll be all over the TV and the papers.”

“So tell me,” she said. She set her cigarette in the ashtray and took his hand.

“She was lying on the living room couch,” he said. “You know, that mattress thing on the floor? I’m really sorry, hon, but she was naked from the waist down and it looked like she was strangled.”

“Jesus!” Dana said. “Bill, are you saying it was a ... a s*x crime?”

Bill nodded.

“Poor Violet. Such an innocent kid.” Dana flung her arms around Bill and let the tears flow.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I was thinking. But can you believe Larry was clowning around like Groucho Marx? He went into Violet’s bureau drawers and waved around pieces of her underwear and joked about them. What a shithead.”

She could understand now why the cops had arrested Larry, but she held her tongue and filed away the image of Larry acting silly at the crime scene. Maybe he could explain it to her sometime. Whatever he was up to, she didn’t think he’d killed Violet.

After a few seconds, Bill started to get up, but Dana pushed him back down. She brushed away her tears with the back of her hand and said, “You haven’t mentioned the cat. Where is she?”

“How’d you know about that?” Bill asked.

After she explained, Bill said. “Sorry, hon. I forgot all about it.”

“Well, where is she? Where’s Becky?”

“Hiding,” Bill said. “She’ll come out when she gets hungry.” He looked at his watch. “I really have to go now,” he said. “I promised to stop by the police station today.”

Dana sighed. At least they had talked for a few minutes, she thought. And he’d acted really sweet, holding her hand like that and letting her cry in his arms for a little while. That’s more than she’d gotten from him in November when Kennedy died. She let him go.

Dana went to the bedroom to change out of her office clothes. Damn, she thought, she’d better dress warmly. She figured Bill hadn’t picked up any Kitty Litter or a box for it or any cat food. She could hear him in her mind’s ear saying, “That’s your department, hon.”

4

Monday Jan. 13, 1964

My heart suffered through a weekend with no sustenance. Today I rose early and prepared myself to venture to the neighborhood inhabited by V. At seven forty-three in the morning, I opened the door through which I had seen her disappear on Friday afternoon. Much to my surprise, a group of young people stood huddled there at the bottom of the stairway. They were smoking cigarettes and laughing and whispering. Apparently they made use of the hallway for warmth whilst they had a last cigarette before beginning their school day. Since they looked too young to be college students, I inferred that there must be a high school in the neighborhood. The young people gave me a defiant look, which took me aback. Some men would have threatened them with an arrest for trespassing. I wish not to involve myself with others when at all possible. Thus, I made an awkward apology and backed away, pretending to have chosen the wrong door.

I noticed a restaurant across the street called Al’s Breakfast, where I might have a plate of buttermilk pancakes while I waited for the young people to exit V’s hallway. Once I had crossed the street and looked in, however, I could see that Al’s did not suit me. There was a single counter with all the stools taken, and several people stretched along the wall waiting to grab a seat when one of the diners arose. Perhaps I would have a better chance for a leisurely breakfast at Gray’s Rexall Drugstore on the other side of Fourth Street.

When I arrived at the lunch counter at the back of the cluttered drugstore, I was astonished to see that She was seated there, eating an order of French toast and sipping a cup of coffee, and there was an empty stool on each side of Her.

I boldly seated myself upon the stool to V’s left. As I sat down, I could see a wave of anxiety ripple across her face. It made Her all the more beautiful and exciting to me. I vowed not to speak to Her today, but only to quietly observe Her. I wished to familiarize Her with my presence before intruding upon her solitude. I ordered some French toast for myself, thinking that She might notice that we had tastes in common, but She did not glance my way. Her face looked even fresher at close range than it had from a distance—She wore no makeup to mar her natural beauty. Her beauty, let me add, was not of the sort that attracts the average man who lacks the aesthetic consciousness. No, the average man is not drawn to innocence and naturalness as am I. He favors girls and women who paint their faces and flaunt their charms in order to flatter his masculinity.

Alas, V quickly finished her breakfast, deposited seventy-five cents on the counter with her check, and was off. I debated with myself whether to return to her hallway, but decided instead to savor the memory of her presence as I made my way to the campus. It was too late for me to attend the Existentialism class, which meets at eight o’clock, so I went to study in the library instead.

***

Tuesday Jan. 14, 1964

I know her name! Today I went to her entryway late in the morning so as to avoid the boorish young people I encountered yesterday. I saw at once that there were two mailboxes attached to the left-hand wall at the bottom of the stairway. Alas, they were labeled with last names only. But when I lifted the top of V’s mailbox, I uncovered a letter addressed to her with an airmail stamp on it. Her name is Violet! It is such a perfect name for her that I marveled at the fact that it had not occurred to me. She is diminutive like a violet, quiet, unassuming, but ready to be plucked.

I removed the letter and held it in my hand, as if to gauge its weight. The neatly-written return address was a street in a town in New Jersey, one I had never heard of before, and the sender’s name was that of a married woman with the same last name as Violet. It had to be from her mother! I longed to open the letter and read it, but resisted the temptation. I am not a criminal! I needed to be patient like a hunter. Once I gained entry to Violet’s apartment, there would be a multitude of opportunities to peruse her private papers. I would be as patient as I needed to be in order to inspire her trust. O, Violet! My Violet!

***

At the police station, they took Larry’s fingerprints since he’d probably left some at the crime scene. “OK, as long as you don’t keep ’em on file like I’m a criminal or something,” he had said.

The first thing they asked him when he got to the interview room was, “Where were you last night, Mr. Benjamin?”

“Where was I? You’re asking do I have an alibi?”

The cop on the other side of the round table, who introduced himself as Sergeant O’Brian, said, “We’d like to rule you out as the perpetrator, sir.”

“Last night I was home studying like a good boy,” Larry said, beaming as if he were talking to his mother.

“Do you live alone, Mr. Benjamin?”

“No,” he said, “I have a roommate. But Jim was out drinking till nine or ten.”

“Jim who?”

“Jim Connelly.”

O’Brian made a note on a little pad. “Try to remember. Exactly when did Jim Connelly get home?”

Larry wasn’t sure. Was it nine or ten? “Nine thirty, I think.”

“So you were alone all evening until nine-thirty?”

“That’s right. I ate at the co-op, the Chateau in Dinkytown. Then I took the bus home. Got there about six-thirty. Then I had a paper to work on.”

“Nobody came to the door?”

“No. I mean, that’s right. Nobody.” Larry studied the cop’s face. He looked bored. Good. These questions must just be routine.

“Did you talk to anyone on the phone?”

Looking O’Brian in the eye, Larry said, “Only Violet.”

“The victim?”

“Yeah.” Larry was sure he hadn’t called any of the girls he was currently dating. s**t. Most nights he called at least one of them, but last night he’d had to write that stupid paper on universals. Now that Violet was dead, all his work on that might turn out to have been a waste of time. He could have been chatting with Nancy or Kathy. Nancy had a sexy voice.

“What time did you call the victim?”

“I dunno. Sometime early in the evening.”

“Did you go to her place after you called?”

“No. I told you I was studying.” The cop’s face still wore a bored expression.

“Did you talk to anyone else on the phone yesterday?”

“Not last evening.” He thought about the call he’d received at the office from June Becker. The cops didn’t need to know about that one.

“O.K.,” O’Brian said. “Need a cigarette or a cup of coffee? Some pop, maybe?”

Larry shook his head. He smiled to himself at how silly it sounded for a cop to use the word pop. It sounded like a child’s word to Larry, but Minnesotans all said it. “I guess I could use a coke if we’re gonna be here awhile,” he said.

O’Brian got up and went to the door and opened it. “Get a coke for the gentleman,” he ordered. They waited until someone brought in a paper cup full of cola and set it on the table in front of Larry.

He took a sip. “Tastes like Pepsi to me. Does Pepsi have a deal with the city or something?” He smiled, then winked at the cop. O’Brian didn’t smile back. Maybe jokes weren’t a good idea.