A Simple Suburban Murder (9 page)

Scott had listened on an extension. He came into the living room. "What do we do now?"

"About Daphne?" I shrugged. "I don't know. She seemed okay last night."

"Do you trust Neil?"

"Yes, and I've known him for years, but we don't have much else for a lead. We'll have to be careful, that's all."

He agreed glumly.

We talked over what I should say when I called the escort service. We couldn't decide on specific action. I dialed the number Neil gave me and asked for Jim Evans. The person on the other end said I must have the wrong number. There was no one there by that name. I hung up, looked at Scott. "Nothing," I told him.

I checked my watch. "If we're meeting Heather Delacroix in an hour out in Orland we better get moving."

We dressed and drove to Heather's. She'd worked in the district the year before. I'd heard she quit to work for a private agency at a much higher salary. When I talked to her the day before, she had reluctantly agreed to my request for a meeting.

She lived in the last condominium in one of the new subdivisions just south of Orland Park, a block east of 94th Avenue. She took our coats and offered us coffee and tea. We sat in the living room on a brown vinyl couch. Stuffed elephants of varying sizes, shapes, and colors decorated a few small tables and shelves. Heather was in her mid-twenties, with red hair and a frown that denoted seriousness of purpose.

She began preemptorially, "I looked through my files on the Evans family, although I hardly needed to refresh my memory. I've made some decisions. If you can do something to help that poor family, then I want to be a part of it."

"Great," I said.

First she talked about Mr. Evans, most of which I already knew from Meg, although Heather had more details. Then she talked about the Evans kids.

"The girls seem normal. Since we're in a kindergarten-through twelfth-grade district, I was able to observe them in class. From what I saw, and what the teachers said, there was no need to refer them for testing.

"The eighth grader, Keith, is another story. He's very interested in sports. The coach said he is an average player. Academically he has numerous learning problems. He's been in learning disability classes since second grade. The father opposed that placement. From what I could find out this was one of the few times Mom stood up to Dad. If this was what was best for the child—she wanted it."

"But he's still in the program after all these years?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Wait," Scott interrupted. "What's learning disabled? The kid seemed strange to me the other night."

"How so?" Heather asked.

Scott explained his unease over the boy's reaction to his dad's death.

When he finished she said, "I don't find anything extraordinary in his reaction. Each of us reacts differently to the death of a loved one. Some never cry at all. With the dynamics in that family one could expect almost anything. Being learning disabled would have no connection to his reaction to his father's death."

Scott nodded that he understood. Heather continued. "I talked with Keith a few times. He hasn't developed the belligerence of many L.D. kids. He seems quite benign about it. He works very hard in school. The L.D. teacher reported him as being very cooperative. They seriously considered dropping him from the program this year and, if not, then surely in high school."

I said, "I tried to find out about this year. The social worker threw me out of her office."

"Did she?" Heather gave a wry smile. "She's new. She's young. She's not used to the pressure, but I'll get to that."

"Was Keith a victim of abuse?" I asked.

She sighed. "There was no physical evidence, no bruises. Yet I found it hard to believe that Evans attacked only the older boy."

"What did you find out about Phil?"

She pulled her sweater closer around her. "I couldn't get him to open up. I went to his father. I felt extremely uncomfortable going to him, but something had to be done. It was a disaster. He told me he didn't believe in this psychological bullshit. I phoned the mother. She was vague and distant. I couldn't get any answers out of her. Neither parent seemed willing to take an active part in what happened to their son." She shook her head sorrowfully. "Maybe if I'd had more experience I could have helped that family."

"I don't know if anyone could have helped them," I said.

"At any rate, next I went to see Sylvester. Phil's case disturbed me. I wanted further testing done, and more follow-ups on the family in general."

"What did Sylvester do?" I asked.

Her eyes misted with tears. "I was a first-year social worker, right out of college, exceptionally well trained, I thought. I wanted to help that family. I didn't trust the father at all. I feared for the little girls. Sylvester did everything and nothing. He promised immediate action. He agreed with me fully. He cautioned me about a staff member being involved, but assured me action would be taken."

"What happened?"

"Nothing, and the harder I worked the more nothing happened, I did all the paperwork, turned it in. First Sylvester needed time to review it. He was busy, but would get to it soon. Then his secretary had it for typing. Next it was lost and I had to resubmit all the paperwork. Then he couldn't get parental signatures. There was more paperwork so that we could do follow-ups without parental permission. That work had to be sent through the bureaucracy—the superintendent, and the Special Education co-op. It went everywhere and got nowhere. I went to see him countless times."

She ran her hand through her hair. "I met a stone wall. I tried going to Armstrong. All I got from him was double talk. I was totally frustrated. It had to be all Sylvester's doing. I watched other cases go through his office in normal amounts of time. Sure, there are always some delays, but it's usually less than a month, two at the most.

"So brave me went in to confront Sylvester." She gave a short, bitter laugh. "You know what he told me? The bastard talked about my evaluation and the possibility of an unsatisfactory rating. He totally ignored what I had to say. I felt completely helpless and furiously angry at the same time. This was around mid-March. I decided to finish the year, but I handed in my resignation the next day. I don't have to work under those conditions."

"So the rumor that you quit for a better-paying job was untrue?"

"Yes. It was another of Sylvester's lies."

"Sylvester covered up for or protected Evans. I wonder why?"

"I never could figure it out. They didn't seem like close friends."

I told her what Leonard Vance said about meetings between Evans and the two administrators.

She walked over to the sliding glass doors and stared out. "That family was so sad." She turned back to us. "I really had nothing to go on. No neighbors complained. The boys had some trouble, but weren't out of control in any way. Dad was strange. Mom seemed to be a basket case. I had a horrible feeling about it." She sat back down slowly. "It turns out I was right."

We listened to a grandfather clock ticking in another room. A few moments later I broke the silence. "When I tried to talk to Nancy Lacey, she seemed frightened."

"She probably was. I've talked with her a few times. She's a nice kid, from a proper school, terribly sincere, wants to change the world. I know the type well. I was exactly like her. She's probably under even more pressure than I was. I presume Sylvester got to her very early to warn her away from the Evans family. She didn't strike me as the type who could buck that kind of pressure."

We stayed another half hour but learned nothing else new. While saying thank yous and good-byes we promised to keep her informed of any new developments.

The meeting with Daphne was for five. I didn't want to be late.

There were no customers in the Womb. Daphne was behind the bar. "Gentlemen, you are in luck." She pointed at me. "You must be one hell of a teacher. Not only did the kid agree to see you, he's eager. I had to restrain him from coming down here. Honorable as you may be, I thought I'd wait to see if you came in trailing a herd of police. Let's go."

She grabbed a black leather purse off the bar and pushed past us toward the exit. "I hope you guys have exact change," she called as she went out the door.

She marched us south on Clark Street. At Fullerton we caught a westbound bus. When the bus stopped under the el tracks, she grabbed us and pulled us out the door. She hurried up to the el platform, watching behind us suspiciously. After an hour of switching buses and trains, and finally taking a cab, we wound up on Wacker Drive at the base of the Sears Tower. On a Sunday at six, except for a stray tourist or two, it was deserted. We went to one of the fast-food restaurants across the street. A
CLOSED
sign hung in the window.

She ignored it and went right in. She flipped the lock on the door when we were inside.

Phil Evans sat in a booth at the back of the restaurant. We sat down across from him. Daphne stood. "I'm going to be sitting up front," she said. "No trouble or double crosses. The manager here and I are friends." She pointed to a man emerging from the shadows behind the counter. His expensive suit didn't hide the muscles bulging on his six-foot six-inch frame. "We can handle even your muscular boyfriend if we have to." I had no intention of starting anything. I was glad to find the kid.

Phil was a handsome boy, very much like his father. He wore a dark-brown corduroy suit that looked brand-new and expensive. Phil smiled at me. "Isn't Daphne something?"

I said, "Yes, she is. It's good to see you, Phil."

I introduced Scott. He recognized the name.

Phil's smile brightened. He said, "Is what Daphne told me this morning true? Are you gay, Mr. Mason? Are you guys lovers?"

Scott flinched. There was little point in lying. I told him yes.

"Wow, I'd never have guessed. You're so masculine and normal acting." He blushed. "I didn't mean anything by that, Mr. Mason."

"I know, Phil. I'll take it as a compliment." I said, "People have been worried about you. We've been looking all over for you."

"I'm glad it was you that came looking for me. I've always trusted you. Remember the time the pack of cigarettes fell out of my jacket, and you took them away but never turned me in to the office? That was cool. In class you always talked to us like we were people. We had to work hard and you were a pain in the butt sometimes, but hey, I learned a lot." While we talked his hands fluttered jerkily adjusting his collar, cuffs, and tie. Under the table his left leg jiggled in constant motion. The kid was tightly strung. He saw me noticing his clothes.

"Nice, huh?"

"Very nice. You seem to be doing well since you left home."

"You bet. I'm never going back." He sounded confident.

"Your mom is worried about you."

His temper flared. "I don't ever want to hear about her, ever, never. All she ever did was give in to my dad. Shit, he beat me, and she stood there and let him." He banged the table with his fist. "And him, he was a mother-fucking bastard. I'm glad the son of a bitch is dead. He was the most evil piece of shit on this earth."

I dared to ask, "Did you kill him?"

"No, but I wish I had. The pleasure of watching him die would have been fantastic. He was a sick son of a bitch. My favorite memory of him, the one I truly enjoy, is of the day I was finally big enough to fight back."

Suddenly the hands were still. His fists clenched. His leg didn't move. He spoke harshly. "I waited for years, silently. I knew some day I'd be big enough and strong enough. Then one day when I was a freshman he came after me for no reason. He walked into my room. He never said a word. He ripped my posters off the wall. He smashed all the models I'd built since I was a kid. I went crazy. He was big, but neither of us realized how big I'd gotten. Every time I landed a punch it felt incredibly good. When the blood started from his nose, he went nuts, but I'd never felt such power. I beat him until he was on the ground beneath me. He bellowed at me and tried to hit back. I felt invulnerable. My mom screamed from my bedroom doorway. I remember Keith yelling, 'Don't kill him, don't kill him.' I only stopped when Keith tackled me off from on top of my god-damn dad, or I probably would have killed him." His breathing was rapid and fierce as the emotion and memory gripped him. "That night had one major effect. He never touched me again. We never discussed what happened. I never found out what set him off. Fifteen years of hell ended in less than five minutes. Do you blame me for being glad he's dead?"

I waited for him to bring himself under control. His ragged breathing slowly eased. I said, "No, I don't blame you for how you feel about your dad, Phil. But your mom?"

He slammed his hands on the table, "No way, man. No guilt there. She could have put a stop to that bastard any time. Do you know what my earliest memory of him is?" He looked from one to the other of us.

We shook our heads.

"Most people's early memories are of warmth and caring. The earliest thing I remember is pain and me crying, and this man screaming at me. I must have been three or four years old at the most." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I was too little to have done something that wrong." Tears started down his face. "How could she not have protected me? What kind of mom was she?" He cried quietly for a moment, then it was too much for him. He buried his head in his arms on the table and sobbed.

I hesitated a moment then moved over to the other side of the booth next to him. I put my arm around his shoulder. I made the sounds one makes at such times, hoping they're soothing and the right thing to say. He shifted and put his head on my shoulder and bawled. I held him tightly and rubbed the back of his neck and head.

A few minutes later his sobs slowed. I looked at Scott. Then I gave the two at the counter a quick look. Daphne had a restraining hand on the manager's arm. She shook her head at him.

When the sobs quieted to sniffles, I said, "Your mom is a frightened woman, a very human person who made a mistake and didn't know how to correct it." He kept his head on my shoulder. The crying was softer now.