A Penny for the Hangman (19 page)

T
HURSDAY,
M
ARCH 12, 2009

“The Night Is Forever”
by Karen Tyler

Rodney Harper and Wulfgar Anderman were national and world news from the night of their arrest. The headlines continued throughout their trial and imprisonment, until November 15, 1959, when two young ex-convicts entered a Kansas farmhouse and murdered the family that lived there. Dick Hickock and Perry Smith became the new celebrities du jour, but Harper and Anderman weren’t forgotten—far from it. Over the years, their legend has grown to cult status.

When Karen woke in the four-poster bed on Thursday morning, the rain of last night had stopped and pale sunlight streamed in through a gap in the curtains at one of the windows. She got out of bed and went to the window, parted the curtains, and raised the sash. The dark clouds of yesterday still crowded the sky and the breeze that greeted her was heavy with moisture, so the promised storm was definitely in the offing. Anytime now, from the look of things. This wasn’t the shiny tropical morning she’d awakened to on her first two days here, but it would do. The view alone was worth the journey.

She rested her elbows on the sill and leaned her head out, inhaling deeply, filling her nostrils with turquoise. She laughed aloud, delighted with her thought. If scents came in colors, this particular aroma would be blue-green. The light, salty tang of the ocean was mingled with the heavy, sweet smell of lush vegetation after a rainfall, creating a perfume that could never be captured in a bottle. You had to be here, on these islands, to experience it.

This window faced the cove, and the front patio was below her on the left. There was a clump of bushes directly under the window: verdant leaves and scarlet hibiscus flowers. The trees that ringed the patio partially blocked her view of the cove, but she could just make out the white sand through the foliage. The beach looked so inviting, even in the cloudy morning, that she toyed with the idea of getting her bikini from her bag, lowering herself from the window, and making the short drop into the bushes, then running down the stairs to plunge into the cool water. Would her host consider that rude?

Her host. She shut the window and came back into the room, glancing at her watch: nearly nine. She’d slept well after her little late-night adventure. If she were home, she would have been up for two hours already. Oh well, it was probably best to treat this excursion as a vacation. But no morning swim, she decided with a reluctant sigh. A shower, then breakfast. Then she and Anderman could get down to business.

She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. The toothbrush was her own, but this morning she realized that the toothpaste and mouthwash in the bathroom were her exact brands. She’d been so tired last night that she hadn’t noticed the coincidence. In the shower, she found fresh bottles of her preferred body wash, shampoo, and conditioner on a shelf above the faucets. She removed the nightgown that was exactly her size. Odd, she thought. Wulf’s lady friend, or whoever the woman is who usually uses this bedroom, seems to have a lot in common with me. Granted, I’m a standard size and these things are all popular brands, but still…

As she washed her hair, Karen wondered if she could ask Wulf Anderman who owned these toiletries. Could that be considered part of the interview? She’d ask him anyway. She was a reporter, after all, and these details were the precise reason magazines were so popular. Besides, she wondered what sort of woman would be willing to overlook his shocking history. She was aware of the phenomenon of people who were emotionally and sexually drawn to criminals, especially famous ones. Even death row inmates garnered a surprising number of pen pals and marriage proposals. Perhaps she could make it a sidebar to the Anderman profile. She’d mention the idea to Sally Cohen.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she found another surprise. There, neatly folded on the armchair by the window, were her jeans, blouse, and socks. She’d dropped them there in a heap last night, but at some point while she slept they’d been taken away and laundered. Mrs. Graves was no oil painting, but she certainly was efficient. Karen suppressed a guilty chuckle at her unkind thought as she put everything on. She grabbed her watch, recorder, and notebook and left the bedroom.

“Good morning, my dear.” Anderman was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on his cane, dressed in a khaki safari jacket and matching slacks. His white shirt was open at the collar. His bald head gleamed, and his blue eyes were twinkling. All he needed were a pith helmet and a rifle, and he’d look like one of those aristocrats in
Out of Africa
. If she hadn’t seen it herself, she’d never have guessed that this dapper gentleman had stayed awake all night, listening to opera and weeping. In the light of day, he looked well rested and remarkably cheerful.

Karen grinned as she came down the stairs to join him. “Good morning, Mr. Anderman.”

“Please call me Wulf,” he said. “You look lovely today.”

“Thank you, Mr.—umm, Wulf. I love your house. I love this island! I haven’t slept so well in years. You may have trouble getting rid of me.”

He laughed. “We’ll send for your things, shall we?”

“I wish! But duty calls back in New York, so we’d best get on with our work. But first, may I try calling New York again? My cell just doesn’t work here.”

“Of course,” he said, waving her toward the hall table.

As Karen went over to the phone, she heard the low rumble of thunder from the sea. She wasn’t surprised, considering the weather, that there was no dial tone.

“Perhaps later,” Wulf said. “I’m afraid there’s going to be more rain today. I was hoping we could dine on the sundeck, but indoors seems the wiser choice. Come, my dear.”

He extended his free arm, and she took it. They made their slow, steady way into the dining room, where Mrs. Graves was setting plates. Karen admired the array before her as she took her seat: fruit, toast, juice, and coffee. Mrs. Graves mumbled something about making omelets and went off to the kitchen.

“I was wondering,” Karen said as she reached for her cup, “whose nightgown and toiletries I’m using.”

He smiled at her. “I think the reporter in you is politely asking if I have any—companion. The answer is no, Karen. I was in love only once in my life, but it didn’t work out well, so I’m alone. A bachelor. It—it suits me.”

Karen wondered about this great love he’d mentioned, but it didn’t seem like the right moment to ask him about it. Instead, she said, “What about Rodney Harper? Do you know if he ever married or…” She trailed off, unsure how to continue.

Wulf Anderman surprised her by laughing again. “Oh my! Intimacies for breakfast. I have no idea what Rodney has been up to—well, since Boston, anyway.”

“Boston?” Karen reached down to activate the recorder on the chair next to her, reaching for a slice of toast at the same moment to mask her action.

His eyes twinkled again, and he settled back in his chair. “Yes, that’s where he went when he was released, in—when was it?—1992. Yes, eleven years after I got out. His brother, Toby, was there, in their mother’s family manse. Everyone else on both sides was dead by then, and Toby had inherited everything. Roddy went there from North Carolina—I guess he didn’t have anywhere else to go. And Toby took him in. Funny, when you think about it—this was the same brother who hadn’t even bothered to leave the ivied walls of Harvard when we were on trial. At the time, he told reporters he’d washed his hands of Roddy. He had his parents’ bodies shipped to Boston, and he and the rest of the Harpers and the Lawsons buried them up there. He never visited Roddy, not once in the thirty-three years of his incarceration, and he never answered Roddy’s letters. But Roddy went to Boston when he got out of Raleigh.

“They lived together in the Lawson house for six years, just the two of them, until an accident in 1998. Toby never married—he apparently blamed us for that; he said women wouldn’t go near him when they found out he was the brother of Rodney Harper. He was a drunk and a drug addict, just like their mother. Roddy took care of him, from what I hear. But one day he forgot to hide the car keys, and Toby wrapped his Lexus around a tree. Died instantly—and you know what? He had a will, newly drawn up, leaving every nickel of the Harper fortune to Roddy. I guess blood really
is
thicker than water.”

“I didn’t think convicted felons could benefit from their crimes,” Karen said.

He was meticulously buttering a slice of toast. “That’s a recent law. Besides, Roddy wasn’t inheriting from his victims. Toby Harper could do as he liked.”

“Yes, but don’t you find that odd? I mean, Rodney killed their parents. Why would Toby leave him everything?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe Toby forgave him.”

Karen shook her head in disbelief. “Or maybe Roddy—I mean,
Rodney
—kept his alcoholic drug addict brother well-oiled until he could trick him into signing a new will. You said it was newly written—maybe it nullified an earlier one. Hell, knowing Rodney, he might even have tampered with the car!”

He stared across the table at her. “ ‘Knowing Rodney’? But, my dear, you
don’t
know Rodney.”

Karen stared right back. “No, I don’t, but
you
do.”

He shrugged again. “Yes, I do—or, rather, I
did
. And you may be right. But I can’t speak for him. He disappeared from Boston after his brother died, and heaven knows where he is now. Let’s get back to St. Thomas.”

He seemed flustered, as though speaking of Rodney Harper and his fate in Boston made him uneasy. Karen had a brief memory of last night, the weeping and the music, her speculation that the two boys might actually have been lovers. Maybe Rodney was the great romance he’d mentioned. That would explain a few things. She wondered who had told Wulf about Boston. He hadn’t been there himself, or so he said. Were he and Rodney in touch with each other?

Mrs. Graves came in with the omelets. While she served them, Karen looked over at her host, who stared down at his plate. His face was flushed, and his hands were trembling. Anger. Why would he be so angry? She had no idea. She decided to wait before questioning him further about Rodney Harper.

“Okay,” she said to him now, “let’s get back to St. Thomas. Where do you want to start, Wulf?”

Crash!
She was startled by the loud clatter of the silver tray as it fell from Mrs. Graves’s hands and landed on the table. The tray was empty, so no real harm was done. The woman snatched it up, murmured an apology, and scurried out of the room. Wulf Anderman watched her go, then turned back to Karen.

“You must forgive Mrs. Graves,” he said. “She’s high-strung.” He grinned again, a Cheshire cat expression that made his eyes twinkle all the more. “Mr.—um, Mr.
Price
seemed like a perfectly nice chap, but frankly, I was glad when he left last night. I was hoping to get you alone so we could watch the film that brought you here in the first place, just you and I.”

“You—you have a copy of
Bad Boys
?” Karen glanced around the dining room. “Here? How on earth did you manage to—?”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Oh, that would be telling. Let’s tackle these excellent omelets while they’re still warm, and then we’ll repair to the living room.” Another rumble of thunder reached them. “It’s the perfect day to stay indoors, and we might as well make the best of it, yes?”

After a moment of surprised silence, Karen nodded.

“The Night Is Forever” (continued)

Underage murderers were hardly a new phenomenon in 1959. Young killers had frequently become nine-day wonders, in America and elsewhere. Two cases, in particular, had engendered publicity to rival the Harper/And
erman frenzy.

Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb were underage—19 and 18, respective
ly—when they committed their famous “perfect crime” in Chicago in 1924, the murder of 14-year-old Bobby Franks. The trial made history when the defense attorney, the great Clarence Darrow, convinced the judge to spare them. They received a sentence of life plus 99 years.

Outside America, five years before Harper/And
erman, there was the Parker/Hulme case in Christchurch, New Zealand. In 1954, Pauline Parker, 16, and Juliet Hulme, 15, were tried and convicted for the bludgeoning murder of Parker’s mother. The girls served approximately five years in separate prisons before being released at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

Both of these cases have been immortalized in books, plays, films, and popular folklore. So it has been with Harper and Anderman, who—according to a tasteless but enduring adolescent joke—became romantic outlaws by realizing the secret fantasy of teenagers the world over. At
harp/and.com,
a website devoted to all things Harper/And
erman, the discussion forum’s general opinion is summed up by a participant known as
slasherboy666:
“Hey, they offed their folks—how kooool is that? LOL!!”