A Simple Suburban Murder (12 page)

"Maybe I did get home early," he admitted.

"Greg, let's make this easier. Help me. Can you tell me what other kids or parents might know about Evans's sexual activity? My guess is that someone else did the same thing you did; stumbled in on them, but that person decided to take matters in his or her own hands." "I don't know of anybody," he said.

I couldn't tell if he was lying or not. I'd come back to it.

"A couple other things I need to know. You weren't entirely truthful the other day. You knew Phil was gay and hustling."

"Yes."

"Why not tell me this at the time?"

"You're an adult, Mr. Mason. I've never talked about sex with adults."

"How did your sister cope with you knowing about her and Mr. Evans?"

"I think I was more upset than she was. After the initial shock of me knowing wore off, as long as I didn't tell, she didn't seem to care."

I couldn't believe she would be that blasé about what happened. I wanted to talk to her.

"Did the two of you ever discuss the incident?"

"Yeah. She told me to stay out of her life. That if I told, she could tell some things about me. I'm no Mr. Perfect. I was past the tattle-tale stage anyway. My mom has enough hassles. There was no point in telling her. My sister and I were very close before that night. It took awhile, but we're friends now."

He looked at me, held his hand out as if for approval. "Was I wrong not to tell?"

"You didn't and it's over. It doesn't matter now." I thought for a minute then asked, "Greg, are you sure you don't know about anybody else having sex with Evans? Even the whisper of a rumor."

He stared back at the floor. "No," he mumbled.

"Greg, I need the truth."

His eyes met mine. "I ain't lying."

For the moment I believed him. I asked, "Do you know if that was your sister's first time with Mr. Evans?" "I don't know."

"Did they do it again afterward?"

"I don't know."

"Where can I get in touch with your sister?"

"You're not going to talk to her?"

"I don't think there's much choice."

"She'll kill me for telling."

"You didn't have much choice about that. There are a lot of questions about Mr. Evans that people must have answers to. And remember Phil's really the one who told me first. You shouldn't have to worry."

"I hope not."

He gave me his sister's address and phone number. Finally he asked in a disgusted tone, "Can I go now?"

"Yes, that's all the questions." He hurried out.

Scott was in the parking lot when I walked out the door. On the way home I filled him in. Once there we did a quick workout then left for the Evanses' house. I'd found the address in the faculty list. As he drove I gave directions and finished my chronicle of the day's events.

"You know who I think is strange?" I said.

"Who?"

"This Vance guy."

"What about him? From what you said he's a pleasant, friendly, old codger."

"He makes me suspicious."

"We're suspicious of everybody, aren't we?"

"Yeah."

"I mean Mrs. Evans as wife is on the list on general principles. Both boys are, especially Phil. You don't trust the principal and superintendent. You didn't sound like you believe Greg told everything. Now you're suspicious of Vance. I guess we don't trust any of these people."

"Until we find the murderer everybody is a suspect, including the cooperative Mr. Vance." "What's wrong with him?"

"Of all the people I've talked to he's the only one who knew Evans who didn't hate him."

Scott was quiet. We looked at each other. As we waited at a light I said, "Don't you find that odd?"

"I hadn't thought of it that way."

"If Evans was undercutting him constantly—"

Scott interrupted, "Not successfully, according to what Vance said."

"I have only his word for that," I replied.

"That's true."

"And I have only his word about the gambling operation. He could be covering for himself. Evans could have screwed it up in some major way, or he might have found a way to cheat them."

"Are you going to check it out?"

"I don't know anybody in the math department. Whoever I ask would be more likely to be loyal to Vance and not say anything. Certainly they would mention it to him. That could antagonize him, and I don't want that right now. The man could be hiding a lot. My original point stands. Why doesn't he hate Evans as everybody else does?"

"Maybe he's an easygoing type," Scott offered.

"Maybe he's a killer hiding a motive."

"Yeah, that too. Your list a minute ago didn't include the hordes who might have interrupted Evans in his illicit activities."

We talked over other aspects of the case the rest of the way but got no further with it.

The Evanses lived in Mokena. It was a small home with an attached garage. The gray house needed painting.

One of the girls answered the door. We asked to talk to her mom. Mrs. Evans came to the door smiling nervously and wiping her hands on paper toweling. She wore a pale-pink house dress, no makeup, no jewelry, and a worried look.

I introduced Scott, then asked her how she was. Before she could answer, Keith bounded down the stairs and into the room. He wore faded gray jeans and a number-34 football jersey. "Who's here?" he said. Then he noticed us. His face brightened when he saw Scott. "Hi, Mr. Carpenter, Mr. Mason." He turned to his mom. "Do you know who this is, Mom?" He blurted along without waiting for an answer, "This is Scott Carpenter. He plays—"

She interrupted. "You must be quieter, Keith. Don't rattle on like that. These gentlemen are here to talk about serious things. Go play downstairs."

"Can't I stay and listen?"

Mrs. Evans, with the paper toweling crumbling in her twitching fingers, tried to be severe. "Now, Keith, you know you can't stay around when adults have serious things to discuss."

"But I always do."

"No, you don't."

"I do too."

This type of domestic repartee irritates me. Scott rescued the situation. He said, "Keith, why don't you and I check out some of your stuff downstairs."

Keith jumped excitedly. "Yeah, I could show you my model planes. I've got the best collection in the world."

"Is that all right with you, Mrs. Evans?" Scott asked.

"He's being a pest. He knows better. Now, Keith—" Her voice lacked all authority. The fire and anger I'd seen the other night seemed to have deserted her.

Scott interrupted. "It's no trouble, Mrs. Evans. Tom can fill you in on everything. I'd like to see Keith's models."

He began to move toward Keith and out of the room. Mrs. Evans closed her mouth on any protest.

I handed Scott the envelope from Phil. "Why don't you take care of this?" I said. Scott took the envelope. The eager youngster led Scott away. In moments their voices drifted up from the basement.

She gave me a weak grin. "He's such a handful. His father was the only one who could control him."

We sat down on a pair of faded brown armchairs.

"We talked to Phil," I said.

Her hands fluttered to her throat. "Where is he?" she cried breathlessly.

"We talked, but we couldn't convince him to come back with us."

Her joyous look turned to confusion. "But why not?"

"He's a very confused young man."

"I'm his mother. I love him."

"I know that, Mrs. Evans," I said softly, "but I don't think he knows it."

"What does that mean?"

"He's been through a lot in eighteen years. The past week, to him, probably feels like a lifetime. He's on a roller-coaster ride. I imagine he thinks he can get off any time he wants. I hope he doesn't decide to do so at the top of a thousand-foot drop."

"He won't come home?" She pleaded with her look.

"Not yet."

Briefly she became fierce. "Where is he? I have a right to know. I want to talk to him."

"I don't know where he is," I said honestly.

"You found him once. How?" she demanded.

"By accident and luck."

"You're hiding him. You could lead me to him."

I met her eyes and held them. I said quietly, "I wish it was that easy."

The flash of fierceness in her eyes died. She leaned all the way back in her chair and shut her eyes. She seemed to have exhausted herself. At length she spoke. "Why try to fool myself? He hasn't needed his father or me for a long time." She paused. Finally when she looked at me and began to speak her voice was resigned. "Was he all right? Was he eating, staying someplace safe?"

"He seemed all right. By the way, that envelope I handed Scott was from Phil for Keith."

"He always tried to care for his little brother," she said. Her lips formed a bitter smile. She spoke more to herself. "When I was little I wanted a life like those on the TV shows, with mom at home, a kindly, wise, slightly befuddled husband, healthy, happy children, love." Her tone was wistful, almost a little girl's voice. She wiped her eyes with the remnants of the paper towel she still clutched and breathed deeply. "I guess I wasn't much of a mother. If I was, none of this would have happened."

"None of us has absolute control of our own lives, or of the lives of the people we love." I tried to speak words that would comfort her. "We aren't God. We'd like to be able to make everything right and perfect with a magic wand. We do our best. That's all anyone can expect of us."

She wiped at her eyes again and gave me a timid smile. "Thank you for your kind words." She paused. "I haven't thanked you for your kindness. I've been terribly rude. You found my son, and you took the trouble to come talk to me. I can never thank you enough."

I demurred gently then added, "Mrs. Evans, there was another reason we stopped by." I didn't know how to approach the subject delicately so I plunged straight in. "It's about your husband."

The worried look returned to her face. "Yes?"

"We were told his finances often fluctuated wildly and that he was short of money lately."

"Yes, that's true."

"Do you know why this was or how he worked the family budget?"

"No. I never had anything to do with family finances. He wouldn't let me. All he gave me was an allowance for household expenses. My husband's records are all here somewhere."

I wanted a look at that information. I asked her if I could see them. When she looked doubtful I said, "The information could point to the killer. If we discover who did it perhaps Phil will come home even sooner." It didn't make any difference if that logic was true, just if she believed it.

My last comment seemed to decide her. "I suppose," she said. She went to a beat-up old desk along the wall on the way to the kitchen. From one of the drawers she took various bank books and papers. She spread them on the desktop.

She said, "The police have gone over all of these. They didn't say they found anything unusual."

"They also didn't find Phil. Maybe I'll see something they missed." We stood at the desk and went over the records. Her ignorance appalled me. I suspected she'd never balanced a checkbook in her life, or even written a check.

What little there was to look at seemed perfectly normal. The statements were in order. The list of paychecks was meticulously accurate. The dates checked out with our paydays for the past few months. There were no unusual entries of money received. The payouts, too, were normal—ordinary household expenses for each month. We went through it all. At the end I was none the wiser.

"He didn't keep any other records?"

"No. He did everything on the computer upstairs. Then he brought the information down here and made entries."

"If he had computer records there might be more on them. Did he save those computer printouts?"

"No. At the end of the day he ripped them up into a million pieces."

"Could I see where he worked?"

She led me to an upstairs room. "This was his office at home." She flicked on the light. The place was profoundly neat. Not a paper was out of place. All materials were in proper slots in exact parallels or at rigid right angles to each other.

"Did the police search in here?"

"Yes. They said they didn't find anything. My husband only kept school things here. The family things were all in the desk downstairs."

I walked around the room. There were two three-foot shelves filled with math texts and computer books. The computer sat on a gleaming steel desk. Next to it was a bin for floppy discs. It was empty.

"Were there discs in here?" I asked.

"There used to be. Someone broke in the day my husband was murdered. Whoever did it left a mess, but all they took were those computer discs."

"Do you know what was on the discs?"

"The police asked me that too. I only remember they were math games for his classes. I don't think the police spent much time in here. It's all school books and papers." She ran her hand along the book shelf. "I put everything back in order the way my husband kept it. I don't know why I did that."

"You're sure all they took were the discs."

"Oh, yes. I'd know if anything was missing. I dusted in here every day. Jim insisted on it."

Idly I ran my hand over the computer keys. Why would they take the discs? I wondered. For no good reason I flipped on the computer. I was surprised when a program began to appear on the screen. She moved across the room and joined me. "Has anyone turned this on since his death?" I asked.

"I haven't. The police might have."

"Or they simply didn't think there'd be a disc left in the drive. And who ever broke in didn't check it either."

The computer settled down to a sedate blink while asking for the user's identification code. "Mrs. Evans, do you know the access code?"

She gave a little-girl shrug. "No, I'm sorry."

I turned off the computer, flipped the lid on the disc drive, and took out the disc. It had no label or other identification markings. "May I take this with me?"

"I suppose, if the police..."

A loud crash and a resounding thump interrupted her doubts. There was a loud "oof," a brief silence, and then uproarious laughter.