Murder My Love (8 page)

“I think I understand,” Abby said.

“You realize that the underlying emotion is shame.”

“Shame?” said Abby quizzically.

“Yes, shame. The person who did this suffered unspeakable shame sometime in his or her early life, and it remained dormant until something triggered it.”

“Well,” said Abby “It doesn’t excuse a shameful act.”

Sylvia nodded in agreement. “Shame only explains it, it doesn’t excuse it.”

She paused to let it all sink in. After a moment, she continued, “As you can see from the horrid photos it can be maniacal. Now, if you want an example of this kind of rage, think O.J. Simpson.”

“Wow!” she exclaimed.

“You see, we recollect O.J. as a handsome collegiate athlete, a one of a kind professional athlete and an engaging television personality. There was never a reason to believe otherwise. Perhaps he was self-indulgent, but that is not necessarily pathological. I never thought O.J. planned to go to Nicole Brown’s home to kill her. We’ll probably never know what was his shame, but we do know that something happened, something was said that provoked him when he encountered her,” Sylvia explained.

“He just snapped?” Abby offered.

“Exactly! His pent up anger gave way to rage,” Sylvia said. “It is likely that the young man who was also murdered was in the wrong place at the wrong time and got caught up in O.J.’s frenzy.”

Pointing at the photos, “We suspect something quite similar with the male victim.” Abby thought for a moment and said, “But you were giving me examples of heterosexual relationships.”

Sylvia searched for Abby’s eyes and locked on them. “It makes no difference who the lovers are.”

Abby thought about that comment and let it sink in.

“Do you read Shakespeare, Abby?”

“Frankly, no. I don’t have the time.”

“Well, there’s a famous line. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

Abby was stunned. For the first time since witnessing the savagery, coupled with what she knew of the victim’s relationships, Chief Wilson began to gain insight into the makeup of the individual who committed the crime. She exhaled deeply. Sylvia touched her hand and said, “Now, do you want to ask me again to define sanity?”

Chief Wilson sat back in her chair. She reached for the decanter and poured a glass of water and sipped it slowly. All the while she replayed in her mind the lucid lecture she was given. She replaced the glass on the table and said,

“So, what am I looking for?”

“I’d say you are looking for a former lover.”

“The female victim had a woman …” Her voice trailed off.

Sylvia Weisbrow replaced her eyeglasses on the tip of her nose, looked above them at the Chief and simply said, “So?”

Abby thought for a moment and replied, “ You’ve been a big help and I want to thank you sincerely.”

“Nothing at all” she replied. “Stop by anytime.”

Abby shook her hand and left her office. She returned to the stationhouse and called Stanton, Devlin and Huff into her office.

“I want you to bring Chicciarelli and Mazelli in for further questioning. She banged her fist on the desk.

“Who the hell is Rita?”

Part 2

Chapter 7

Zephyr Cove was tucked away between two mountain ranges in northern Vermont. It was a hamlet that straddled an estuary of the Manatonic River. Like many small towns in northern New England, it featured a gas station, general store, package store, tavern, and a restaurant. In that town the commercial enterprises were located on the west side of the stream. On the east side were homes and farms. Even in small towns, two or more religious denominations were often represented but not in this one, only the Presbyterian Church. Steeples and silos were fixtures on rural landscapes and that was not an exception in Zephyr Cove. A rickety wooden bridge that spanned the estuary connected the two sides of town. Some towns were more densely populated, some less so. Roadside farm stands abounded. So did motels and diners. Farming in summer and skiing in winter were the mainstays of northern Vermont’s economy. Unlike the southern half of Connecticut that once featured tobacco farms, northern Vermont was studded with vegetable and dairy farms. The production and distribution of maple syrup anchored employment in many communities. What bound together all the communities was intimacy. Residents of small towns knew each other. They may not always have been on friendly terms but they were aware of everyone’s comings and goings. Despite the petty feuds, they respected each other’s privacy. The most unusual feature of Zephyr Cove was the presence of a beauty parlor. It was an oddity in a rural farming community where housewives routinely engaged in heavy work, and the luxury of dressing up was infrequent at best. The salon was owned and managed by a young man who was barely twenty-two years old.

Conrad Zimmer was the proprietor of the Zephyr Cove Beauty Salon. Its name implied that is was grander that it was. It consisted of two chairs in the former storage room of the general store, a floor to ceiling mirror, a sink, a table with hairstyling paraphernalia, and a hairdryer. Ladies of the surrounding towns would come to have their hair washed and set. They were as much interested in meeting their neighbors as they were at being coiffed. At first, it was generally understood they were not so much interested in Conrad’s skills as they were in being kind to Conrad’s mother. As his skills improved, they came to be pampered.

Conrad was the only child of Heinrich and Frieda Zimmer. Heinrich’s birth name was conveniently reduced to Hank. During the Great War there was widespread antipathy to Germans. The Americanization of his name mitigated the abuse that might otherwise have been heaped upon him. They were vegetable farmers who lived in a modest home set back from the two-lane highway that bisected the town. The house sat on eight acres of relatively flat fertile land that had been harvested over several generations. The Zimmer family bible listed every member for three generations and it could trace its lineage back to the great grandfather’s arrival in New England. The original Zimmer emigrated from Bavaria. Farming was in the family blood as far back as anyone could remember.

Hank was a son of the soil. Dirty hands were his badge of honor. He was an emotionally rigid man who slavishly adhered to rituals and traditions, mostly European. He never adopted the cultural norms of New England except for attending the local church. His presence was perfunctory, as his motive was merely to ward off gossip that he might be a non-believer. He would rise before dawn to tend his chickens and to farm his animals. Working the land necessarily produced a muscular body. His hands were large, callused and strong. He wore a hat both summer and winter. Despite the protection, his face was coarse and weathered. He smoked a pipe that seemed to be a permanent fixture in his mouth. In summer, he grew an assortment of root and leafy vegetables. Some were trucked to a cooperative and much was sold from the front porch of his home. In winter he sold pickles, jams, and pies that Frieda had prepared in her kitchen. He also sold apples. His fore bearers had planted the orchard. It yielded so many apples that, if it were necessary, he could spend the winter surviving on what was stored in his barn. The mainstay of income was the abundance of eggs from his chicken coop. He was proud of his coop. It was the envy of his neighbors. Everyone in town marveled at Hank’s mastery of raising chickens. The quality of the eggs was extraordinary. Their exceptional taste attracted a year round steady stream of customers.

At the time when Conrad was born in the early seventies, the farm was flourishing and the income was steady. Hank was joyful. He looked forward to the day he could pass on his traditions and his land to his son. But as time passed by and as Conrad grew older, the lot of individual truck farmers began to wane. The large national conglomerates that imported food from Mexico, South and Central America made it nearly impossible for the individual truck farmer to survive. By the time Conrad was a teenager most had given up farming altogether. Hank held on. It wasn’t so much that he was stubborn; it was his sense of tradition that motivated him, to pass on the family legacy. He was burdened by the notion that his son should carry on the Zimmer tradition.

“What’s the use?” he lamented to Frieda. “That boy will never be able to run this place.”

“It’s not his fault,” she protested.

“He’s a useless piece of crap,” he would snarl. “He’s a runt! How could you produce such a useless child?”

Similar outbursts ended any semblance of a conversation.

The first inkling that caused Hank to disparage his son came when the boy was only three years old. Conrad didn’t play like other boys. He didn’t like to get dirty and run about outdoors. Conrad preferred to play in the kitchen. He would emulate his mother. He made believe he was chopping vegetables or rolling out pie dough. Frieda never gave it a second thought. Her son’s behavior endeared him to her. She was flattered by it. Hank, on the other hand, was furious. He lamented that he did not have a traditional son, one who would help him with the chores of the farm. No matter how often he demanded Conrad’s presence in the barn of the chicken coop, he would be rebuffed.

“Why do you let him stay in the kitchen? He should help me with the chores. He’s old enough to feed the chickens.” He would constantly bellow his displeasure and berate Frieda who silently accepted his abuse. To Hank’s way of thinking his son was a wastrel. He expected his son to be rugged, manly, and above all, big and strong. At dinnertime he would castigate him. Like most tots Conrad would crawl around on the floor. If he came near the dinner table Hank would kick him like a dog. He’d scowl, “Get away you little runt.” Even when Conrad entered his teens and was expected to experience a “growth spurt,” it was pathetically meager. He never grew in stature, always small for his age. Hank blamed Frieda. He would snarl, “What’s the use of having a son if he can’t grow up to be useful?”

Sometimes he’d pick up the child and place him in another room just so he wouldn’t have to look at him. Other times, Hank would grab him by his collar and shove him under the table. Conrad would be hidden by the tablecloth as his father would crow, “Stay there so I don’t have to look at you.” Hank’s behavior devastated Frieda but she had no recourse. She was trapped, and totally at his mercy, bereft of options. She had no family she could run to for support. Whatever family she had, who survived the rigors of farming, moved away long ago to seek greener pastures. She dared not confront her husband for fear of incurring his wrath. Hank’s obnoxious behavior at the dinner table was a signal for Frieda to pick up a soiled dish and leave. She’d dash into the kitchen and weep. Hank was relentless in his disdain for his son. Most men in town who gathered at the gas station or the tavern to exchange gossip would boast their son’s accomplishments. Hank behaved as if he was childless.

Neighbors were more understanding. They befriended Frieda. They bonded with her as many had husbands who were equally intemperate. They routinely patronized her ‘store.’ They preferred to purchase fresh produce from the Zimmer’s farm than to take a chance on what was displayed at the local grocery store, where they could not determine its freshness, let alone the country of origin. It was especially nice to purchase those items that were in season. Hank would be up before dawn uprooting carrots, radishes and beets or he’d cut lettuce heads and kale. He’d bring them to his porch in a wheelbarrow. Frieda would come out after breakfast dishes were cleared, and arrange every item in separate baskets to make them more appealing. There was always a basket lined with straw that was piled high with fresh eggs. By nine o’clock in the morning the housewives from town began to arrive. They’d pick over the items, sometimes haggle a bit over price, but always exchanged the pleasantries of the day. The regulars sometimes stayed for tea. Frieda always had a pot of boiling water on the stove and welcomed everyone to stay. They’d sit on the porch for a time in wicker furniture and admire the array of flowers growing in the front yard. The years of living with Hank and the work of the farm took its toll. Frieda walked with a stooped posture, as though her spirit was broken. Her face was haggard. The color of her hair was unknown, as it was always wrapped in a bandana and topped with a straw hat. As much as she tried to be affable, she always seemed tired. Her eyes were sunken, lifeless, and joyless. Laughter seemed never to have escaped her mouth. Neighbors took notice of her demeanor but never questioned her. They sensed that her marriage was a failure. They tried to engage only in light conversation, never commenting about her manifest unhappiness.

The noise of traffic and chirping birds were the only intrusion on a peaceful morning. Travelers from neighboring towns often interrupted the gossiping on the porch by stopping to purchase some of her wares. The neighbors were always considerate when dealing with Conrad. They more often treated him as a pet than as a child with unusual behavior. When visitors mounted the steps to the porch, bountifully displayed with the fruits of the land, they would see Conrad regularly by his mother’s side. He’d hang on to Frieda’s apron or hold on to her skirt. It was the hurtful comments that pained Frieda the most.

“What a handsome boy. How old is he?” a visitor would innocently ask.

“He’s just turned five.”

“Oh, my. He looks more like three.”

Frieda would look away and busy herself rearranging her vegetables. A sharp pain gripped her in the pit of her stomach, but she dared not respond to such hurtful remarks for fear of losing a customer. Conrad sensed her displeasure. He felt her anxiety. He’d run into the house and cower in a closet. He’d play make-believe until his mother regained her composure and came for him. She would hold him tight, smother him with kisses and remind him that his mother loved him always. It was comforting to Conrad to know his mother loved him, but he also knew that his father had no use for him. In fact, he believed that his father hated him. It was a sense of loss that he would never overcome, nor for which anyone else could ever compensate. Because of his father’s behavior, Conrad never once felt that his childhood environment was anything but toxic.

Conrad attended the local school. He did not make friends with the children of other merchants. He did not fit in with the boys who worked on their parents’ farm. It was not helpful to his psyche when his classmates taunted him and nicknamed him ‘Connie.’ While still in his early teens, he had not yet identified himself sexually. It seemed that his peers intuitively knew. There was no one in town his own age with whom he bonded and there was no adult that he could look to for support.

There was one notable exception. She was a woman who had recently arrived in town. She settled in Zephyr’s Cove about the time Conrad was five years old. It was rumored that she was an excellent cook. When she learned of the Zimmer farm she naturally gravitated to it. It took no time for her to endear herself to Frieda.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” she said at her first visit.

“Don’t ma’am me, young lady. Just call me Freddy.”

“That’s not a name for a lady,” she replied.

“I know. My name is Frieda. In German, it sounds so much like Freddy. So, all my friends call me that.”

“Well, my name is Rita, Rita Quigley.

Frieda’s charm embraced Rita. They became instant friends. At first, Rita was a regular customer. Later in their friendship, she became a frequent social visitor. At each visit she saw how Conrad behaved and noticed his demeanor when he was among boys and girls. She’d see how attached he was to his mother. As a mother herself, she had an urgent desire to nurture him, as if she could mold him with her brand of love and affection. Often she’d come to the farm with her own children and encourage them to play with Conrad. Rita’s oldest, Sean, who was about the same age, found it difficult to play with him. They had absolutely no common interest. Sean would want to play catch with a softball or climb up a tree, but Conrad would have none of it. Mary Ellen, her daughter, was not so unlucky. They would sit in the living room and play with Mary Ellen’s Raggedy Anne doll. Or, colored with crayons and competed to see who could draw the best picture. Conrad sensed that Rita had a special place in her heart for him. He grew to love her. He grew to do just about anything she asked of him. It was when he went to high school that their relationship grew into something more.