Winter of frozen dreams (13 page)

If nothing else, the idea merited consideration. It had to have crossed her mind. Lullings experience indicated that sinister notions beheld a life unto themselves and, if pushed and prodded around the psyche long enough, gathered an impetus and achieved an actuality that was played through to its tragic conclusion. Furthermore, the Transport Life policy was due for renewal January 26th, and a one-month grace period was allowed. Barbara had to produce $6,168.30 or forfeit the policy—or see to it that Davies died.

A concerned Lulling enlisted Jim Doyle's support for continued protective surveillance. The DA agreed that Daviess blind devotion to Hoffman made him vulnerable. Together they campaigned for a resumption of full-time surveillance.

Their efforts were quickly stifled. Economic constraints and budgetary cutbacks were cited as the reasons their appeal was denied. The city could not afford to have three officers sit and guard a man who claimed he was not in danger.

Angered by the decision, Lulling assumed a personal

vigil over Davies. On frigid winter nights he huddled in his car, puffing on his cherrywood pipe, the car heater keeping the frostbite from his toes, and waited for Davies to exit 638 State Street and drive home. When Davies went to bed, Lulling stuck a peanut shell under the rear tire of the Chevy, which the detective checked every morning on his ride to work. If Davies went out, Lulling knew about it.

The veteran detectives intense involvement stemmed from a sense of obligation to his job, not from any special affinity for Davies. Jerry Davies was a fool for dating Hoffman in the aftermath of the Berge homicide, and Lulling had told him exactly that. Nonetheless, Davies was a fool who had to repeat his story to a judge and a jury.

During Barbaras tenure as a masseuse at Jan's one of the part-time managers was a genteel fellow named Bruce Dalby. Tall, blond, conspicuously handsome, Dalby looked as if a California beach, not a sleazy massage parlor, would constitute his natural habitat. He had ink-blue eyes and an insouciant smile, wore oxford shirts and tennis shoes. He was a friend of Ken Curtiss; however, the snarl and the bulging muscles that seemed a requisite of Curtiss buddies were conspicuously absent in Bruce Dalby. Weightlifting and fisticuffs were of no concern. His interests were more esoteric—the contrasting qualities of Mexican, Hawaiian, and Jamaican pot, the plot twists of a Dickens novel, the proper topspin on his forehand volley. Though thirty years old, Bruce Dalby still lived with his parents in Nakoma, an exclusive area that edged the University of Wisconsin Arboretum on the city's west side. His parents 7 aristocratic pretensions nauseated him. Yet he accepted the spoils of their wealth—the country club memberships, the Mercedes for graduation from college. Dalby respectfully disrespected his family. His drug use

was kept discreet. He possessed the remarkable ability to sit at a family dinner zonked on hashish and not slurp the French onion soup, or drip the hollandaise onto his shirt, or gobble the mocha torte in a sugar-craving frenzy.

Whenever his parents were out of town, Bruce Dalby threw bawdy celebrations. On a Saturday in July 1975 Dalby hosted an anniversary fete for his parents, who were five thousand miles away on a European vacation. Barbara Hoffman was working at Jans that night, and she and Liza drove to Nakoma after their shift.

Still buzzing from the narcotics consumed during work, Barbara and Liza meandered through the crowd. The crumbs of an anniversary cake lay on a marble ta-bletop. Ice cream melted in china bowls. In the kitchen they joined a small group that was snorting coke. Wine, Quaaludes, and cocaine mixed fine. Liza vanished among the revelers. Barbara roamed the house.

Behind the leaded-glass doors of a den she spied Ken Curtis, or rather his back, which was broad and unmistakable in a tight-fitting T-shirt. His legs, exposed by gym shorts, were muscular but skinny compared to his ponderous upper body. Curtis was surrounded by a clique who treated him with deference, listening carefully when he talked, directing comments for his approval.

The conversation spun aimlessly. Behind damask curtains a chubby woman was performing fellatio on a fellow whose face was hidden. The party had slowed. People were either fatigued or catching their breath for the next outburst.

Ken Curtis called Barbara over. He whispered to her, watched the curiosity in the freckles of her delicate face as she contemplated his offer. She nodded.

The windshield of the Lincoln Continental bent the moon and refracted its creamy rays across the dashboard, across the patch of upholstery where Curtis shimmied out of his gym shorts. The scent of the pine trees drifted through the windows. Talk seemed superfluous, so nothing was said. Barbara kissed at him playfully, and he dodged her. He offered his neck, his cheek, his chin, but

denied her his lips. She kissed the thick expanse of his chest, felt the strength and tightness of his shoulders and back. He guided her descent into the beam of moonlight that washed his belly and hips.

Her fingers coaxed Curtis rigid. Barbara took his cock to her lips, slid it against the roof of her mouth. She lapped at the shaft with brisk rushes of her tongue as if it were a brush slapping paint on canvas.

Curtis muttered approvingly, and his prick swelled fuller in appreciation of her art. He lifted the hair out of her face and watched as she took him deep into her mouth. In the leap of passion she had neglected to remove her glasses, and the lenses crushed into a jungle of pubic hair. His callused hands rubbed her shoulders as she raked her teeth gently along the length of his prick.

Her mouth pumped up and down, as if she were chasing something, madly sucking his cock. The muscles of his body contracted. The heat poured off his skin. Her teeth and tongue took turns teasing. The patch of moonlight spilled, salty and sticky and white.

Hoffman and Curtis became lovers, sort of. There was little romance involved. When Curtis desired her company, which usually meant her sexual favors, he called. They might spend an hour together in the afternoon or in the evening. Should Curtis decide he wanted to stay the night in her apartment, Barbara willingly complied and arranged for Matt Bradley to stay in a motel room. Their relationship was fierce, fiery, and carnal. One thing it did not include, however, was kissing. Curtis never pressed his lips to Barbaras; a kiss was something he would not share. No matter how Barbara pleaded, he withheld this simple act of affection.

On February 16th a preliminary hearing was held before Dane County Court judge William Byrne.

Senior Assistant DA John Burr, aided by Chris Spencer, handled the prosecution. Doyle had chosen Burr to argue the case for the state because of his experience and thoroughness. He had been a prosecutor for a dozen years. He was diligent and able; he did his homework carefully and never entered court unprepared. In a case largely based on circumstantial evidence these qualities would prove invaluable. Furthermore, Burrs solid and reasoned style would show a sharp contrast to Eisenberg's theatrics. Rather than fluster Burrs even temperament, Eisenberg's belligerent demeanor would goad the assistant DA's competitive juices. Burr would not be intimidated or cowed inside a courtroom, or so Jim Doyle predicted.

The problem with giving the case to his senior assistant was that a deep animosity existed between Burr and Chuck Lulling. The two men had worked together in the past and had clashed. Both toted sizable egos and long memories, and they avoided contact. Like stubborn children, Burr and Lulling did not speak directly to one another. Spencer or Doyle acted as intermediary in coordinating the investigative and legal aspects of the case.

Except for the crush of media attention—the TV cameras and the flashbulbs and the reporters barking questions in the hallway—the prelim hearing was routine. A reticent Jerry Davies plodded through the events of the night of December 23rd and the morning of December 24th. His answers to Burrs questions were short. His tone was clipped, fractured. He kept poking at the bridge of his glasses, his brown eyes downcast, fighting to avoid the unrelenting gaze of his fiancee. The tale did not vary from what he had confessed to Lulling on Christmas Day. Yet Daviess appearance and attitude worried the prosecution. His resistance was ebbing. He was going through the motions, obsessed by the consequences.

Other witnesses testified regarding Berges change of beneficiary on his life insurance plans—naming Linda Millar the beneficiary—and his putting Linda Millars name on the deed of the house. Evidence was presented to

demonstrate that Linda Millar and Barbara Hoffman were one and the same person.

Pathologist Billy Bauman, who had conducted the autopsy, reported that Harry Berge had died from five blows to the head and neck area. Aspirated vomitus may have also contributed to the death.

Donald Eisenberg argued several motions for dismissal, and all were rejected.

The inquiry concluded with Judge Byrne s ruling that probable cause had been proven. Barbara Hoffman was ordered to stand trial on charges of first-degree murder.

8

The pressures of loyalty and conscience battered Jerry Davies. He was tossed like a sailless skiff adrift in Lake Mendota's choppy waters on a gusty spring day. When the thought occurred that he might capsize, he rushed to Dr. Paul Slavik for a refill of the Valium prescription.

In an effort at stability Davies called an old friend. Chuck Richardson was a boyhood chum who had married and settled in Madison. He and Davies had maintained infrequent contact. They drove for an hour or two one winter afternoon, Daviess Chevy crunching the salt-strewn streets, a U.W. Badgers basketball game on the radio, and they reminisced about their youth in Spring Green. They swapped stories about BB gun battles in the rows of feed corn; about their first taste of beer—Huber— brewed in nearby Monroe; about their seasons of high school football. Jerry had been a flat-footed defensive back and Chuck a roly-poly lineman.

The present was overwhelming, and the past—fixed, immutable, safe—offered a soothing retreat. The recollections ameliorated Daviess upset. He hinted to Richardson of his current troubles but shied away from a frank discussion. He seemed satisfied to talk of things vaguely, to start

a sentence and let it trail off into silence. Richardson did not press. He listened, but did not probe. Some things were impossible to talk about.

Chuck Richardson and his wife had read of the tragic affair in the newspapers and were stunned by their friends connection to Hoffman and the massage parlors.

A person as shy around women as Jerry Davies entering a massage parlor was unimaginable, commented Chucks wife. Davies was so ill at ease that in restaurants he stuttered when he gave the waitress his order.

Richardson concurred. Not once could he remember his buddy attending a dance or going out on a date. Davies had told him he was just too bashful to meet women. Now Jerry mentioned their marriage plans if Barbara was acquitted.

The Chevy pulled into the Richardson driveway. Chuck hunted for a sagacious word to impart. He couldn't find anything to utter except "good luck" and an invitation to visit again. Davies smiled and drove away.

The premium payment on the Transport Life policy was due, and Barbara was in a dither. De Zamaconas final instructions before he'd vanished back to Mexico were to send a check directly to the home office in Texas to keep the policy active. But Barbara did not have $6,618.30. If she didn't raise the necessary cash, Daviess monetary value plummeted from $750,000 to the paltry $20,000 in insurance he owned prior to their meeting, which rose only slightly, to $35,000, in case of accidental death. Furthermore, the money already invested would be lost. She scrutinized the policy and solicited Al Mackey's advice.

She brought him the Transport Life policy. He rummaged his pockets for bifocals, slid the frames onto his nose, and after a half hour of study his announcement was unequivocal: call the company, ask if they will refund the premiums, and cancel the policy.

Barbara didn't like the counsel, but she didn't see another way out. She instructed him to act as her attorney and proceed.

On February 24th Mackey phoned Dave Wallace, director of claims for Transport Life, and inquired if the company knew of the charges against Barbara Hoffman.

Rumors had circulated, Wallace said.

Mackey explained the situation and wondered what effect it would have on the policy.

No effect, said Wallace, unless Davies made a written request that his life no longer be insured in favor of Ms. Hoffman. Only then would action to cancel the policy be pursued.

Did this imply that the policy could be rescinded and a refund granted? Mackey questioned.

The insurance executive explained that a full refund was not possible. The cost of underwriting had been incurred, records had been set up, commissions had been paid, and Davies had received a full year of coverage. Wallace said that Transport Life would remit $2,000, provided that the policy was in its office by February 27th. Mackey agreed.

The compromise did not please Barbara. She presented the problem to Don Eisenberg.

A clerk in the firm studied the policy. In his opinion it contained little investment value, for term life was designed as life insurance protection and not for an investment return. Furthermore, it was questionable whether the beneficiary of the policy could collect while under indictment for murder.

On February 27th Eisenberg called Wallace. Under a persistent cross-examination the claims director confirmed that these points were probably true. Wallace also told Eisenberg of the negotiations with Al Mackey.

Eisenberg told Barbara that his strong recommendation was to relinquish the policy. When she protested, he stressed that the policy could be damaging to her in court and that there were some obstacles that not even his immense talents could overcome.

Barbara reluctantly agreed to heed Eisenberg's advice. Eisenberg called Wallace later the same day and said the $2,000 refund for forfeiture of the policy was acceptable, but the deadline was too tight. Wallace extended it by a few days.