The Enemy at Home

Nora barely glanced at the small headline on the left side of the front page of her morning Seattle Times:

Strangler Shot Dead by Police at Murder Scene

There were no photographs of the unfortunate woman or her slayer. Nora was more interested in the latest war news—especially in North Africa. Seeing nothing along those lines on page one, she started making her coffee and toast.

The house was quiet. Jane had gotten up and left early for some rubber scrap drive, one of her many extracurricular activities. Chris was still asleep. He’d asked Nora to make sure he was awake by nine thirty because he had to mow Mrs. Landauer’s lawn today. Nora was dressed in slacks and a sweater. She planned to catch up on laundry and housework.

Just as she sat down with her coffee and toast, the telephone rang.

“Oh, spare me,” she muttered, getting to her feet. She headed into the hallway to answer the phone. “Hello?”

“Nora? Hi, it’s Fran. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No, I was just about to have my breakfast.”

“You don’t know about Connie, do you?” Fran asked warily.

Nora and Fran had wondered why Connie hadn’t shown up at lunch yesterday. In fact, while they’d been sitting in their usual spot in the cafeteria, Larry had strutted by the table. “Where’s your friend with the big mouth?” he’d asked. “I hear she’s AWOL today.” Not waiting for an answer, he’d kept on walking.

Nora had figured Connie must have taken the day off and given herself an extended weekend. But obviously, Fran knew something. And from the tone of her voice, it sounded like something serious.

Nora felt a sudden tightness in her gut. She sat down in the hardback chair by the phone stand. “What happened?”

“It was in this morning’s paper,” Fran said.

“I haven’t read it yet. I was just about to. What happened?”

“It’s bad news, hon, really bad. Brace yourself . . .” Fran’s voice cracked a little. “She’s dead, Nora. They’re saying Roger—that nice Roger—they say he killed her.”

Stunned, Nora sat there with the receiver to her ear. “Fran, what are you talking about? That’s crazy . . .”

“It’s here in the Times,” she said, sniffling. “I didn’t want to believe it either, honey. Not our girl, not our Connie. It couldn’t be. They say Roger strangled and stabbed her in her kitchen. The downstairs neighbor—that Myrtle woman Connie told us about, the nosy one—she heard arguing and then it turned into a scuffle or something. Anyway, she called the police. When they arrived, they found Roger, covered in blood, standing over Connie’s body. The cop said it looked like Roger was reaching inside his jacket for a gun. So he shot Roger and killed him.”

Nora started to cry. She couldn’t believe Connie was dead. None of what she heard made any sense. “Roger had a gun?” she asked.

“They discovered later that he was unarmed. Apparently, he was going for his wallet when the cop shot him.”

“Then how can they be so sure he killed Connie? The two of them were friends. You saw how they were together . . .”

“The police went through Roger’s apartment afterward and uncovered evidence that he was a pervert.”

“A pervert? They said that in the newspaper?”

She heard Fran blow her nose. “Maybe they said ‘deviant,’ ” she answered, her voice a little raspy. “I’m not sure. Anyway, the gist of it is the police say Roger killed her.”

“Well, the police are wrong,” Nora protested. “Fran, the other night, my brother guessed that Roger was a homosexual. Connie must have known. I think they were good friends. I’m pretty sure there was nothing sordid or sexual about their relationship, certainly nothing that would lead to a violent murder.” Nora wiped away her tears. “She was stabbed and strangled? Can you picture that nice man doing such a thing to Connie—or to anyone for that matter?”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“Fran?”

“He did seem very decent,” she said finally. “So . . . you’re telling me that he was a homosexual and Connie knew? Because she gave me—along with the rest of the gals in our section—the distinct impression that she and Roger were dating. Did Connie actually tell you that Roger was that way?”

“In so many words,” Nora answered. “Remember how Connie was three sheets to the wind at the party? Well, after you left, she pulled me aside and asked me to set her up with my brother. She pretty much admitted that she was love starved and her relationship with Roger wasn’t romantic or sexual. I was disappointed to hear it because he seemed like such a catch. He was so nice . . .”

“I thought so, too. I won’t forget how kind he was to Martin.”

Nora wiped her eyes again. “Poor Marty, how did he take the news?”

“He—well, he was pretty tired when I told him. It was about an hour ago. I was sitting in the kitchen, reading about it, when he got back from one of his evening prowls. He saw I was crying—”

“I’m sorry,” Nora interrupted. “I remember you said that Marty goes out some nights. But I didn’t know he stays out all night long. What does he do until seven thirty in the morning?”

There was a pause, and Nora immediately regretted her tactlessness. “I’m sorry, Fran. It’s none of my business. Please, forget it.”

“No, it’s a good question,” Fran said glumly. “Sometimes, he goes to one of those all-night movie houses. In the dark, people don’t notice his eye or the scar. He can be out and about without feeling self-conscious. Or he’ll drive to the beach to sit there alone and think. At least, that’s where he says he’s been. Often, when he’s been out the entire night—like last night—he has breakfast someplace before he comes home. For a while, I was worried he was out getting drunk somewhere, maybe getting into trouble. But I don’t think so. Like I say, he’s still not comfortable around people. You saw that the other night. I tell myself, he’s twenty-three years old. As long as he stays out of trouble, he should be allowed to go out wherever he wants—and whenever he wants. But I still worry . . .”

“Well, of course you do,” Nora murmured. Suddenly Chris sneaking out for a few hours on the occasional night didn’t seem all that bad.

“Anyway, when Marty came in, I told him about Connie and Roger. I told him how it didn’t make any sense to me.”

“What did he say?” Nora asked.

“Well, like I mentioned, he was tired. He . . . he said something like, ‘The whole world’s gone crazy. Nothing makes any sense anymore.’ Then he went up to bed. He’s asleep now. He’ll probably sleep all day—until four or five this afternoon. He does that sometimes.”

Nora had thought Marty would be more upset—considering how Roger had come to his rescue at the party. And Connie had been very sweet to him, too. Then again, Nora realized she really didn’t know Fran’s son.

But he was right. Nothing made sense anymore.

On the other end of the line, she heard Fran clear her throat. “Do you really believe the police have it wrong about Roger?”

“I guess I shouldn’t be so sure until I’ve read more of the details,” Nora admitted. She started to cry again. “But I can’t believe he would have murdered Connie. They were friends. I don’t care what the police say about him. Roger was a gentleman. . .”

* * *

Nora couldn’t eat anything. But she had a cup of coffee while she read the newspaper account of Connie’s murder.

The Times article didn’t give many details about what the police had uncovered in Roger Tallant’s apartment. The so-called evidence that had practically convicted Roger as far as they were concerned was described as “salacious materials that seemed to fit with the deviant nature of the crime,” whatever the hell that meant.

Yes, they’d found Roger, covered in blood, standing over Connie’s dead body. But what murderer, caught in the act, reaches for his wallet to show the cops his identification?

Nora noticed the clock on the stove panel read nine thirty-five. She splashed some water on her face and then went upstairs to make sure Chris was awake.

She knocked on his door. “Are you up?” she called.

“Yeah, thanks!” he replied.

Nora leaned closer to the door. “Honey, after you get dressed and before you go over to Mrs. Landauer’s, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No, I just—”

“Is it Dad?” he interrupted. “Is that why I heard the phone ring?”

“It’s not Dad, Chris. But this is something serious.”

“I can barely hear you through the door, Mom. Come on in . . .”

She opened the door and saw him sitting up in bed, his brown hair a mess of cowlicks. Squinting at her, Chris scratched his chest through his T-shirt. “What is it, Mom? You might as well tell me now.”

Nora remained in the doorway. “I guess this shouldn’t affect you as much as it has me.” She shrugged. “You only met them once. But my friend, Connie, and her friend, Roger . . .”

“You mean, from the party?”

She nodded. “They—ah, they’re both dead. Connie’s neighbor called the police about a disturbance. When the police arrived, they found Connie on the floor, dead—with Roger standing over the body. They shot him.”

Chris didn’t say anything. He just kept squinting at her like he didn’t understand.

“The police say he strangled Connie. But I don’t think he could have done it . . .” Nora felt her throat tightening, and she thought she might start to cry again. Something about telling Chris made the whole horrible thing so undeniably real. “Anyway, the story’s in the newspaper down on the kitchen table—if you want to know more.”

Chris covered his face with his hand and slouched back on his pillow. “Could you—could you please leave me alone for a while?”

Nora almost instinctively went to comfort him, but she held back. She retreated to the hall and closed the door.

“Mom?” she heard him call in a shaky voice.

“What is it, honey?” she replied through the door.

“Mom, I’m so sorry about your friend.”