The Enemy at Home

Joe’s LaSalle was still in the driveway. The garage apartment’s living room window was open, and Nora could just barely hear Frank Sinatra’s crooning on the radio. Every once in a while, she saw Joe pass by a window in his T-shirt and paint-splattered khakis.

On the bus ride home, it had occurred to her that, when Joe had asked to borrow the photo of Jane with her uncle, he hadn’t been interested in painting Jane at all. More likely, he’d wanted a good, clear photo of Ray.

One of the first things Nora had done after returning home was check the family photo album for that photograph. But the photo of Jane and Ray at a picnic three years ago was gone.

Nora wondered if one of the kids had already given the photo to Joe. Or had Joe been so eager to get his hands on the picture that he’d snuck into the house and stolen it?

But that didn’t make sense. She’d already promised Joe she would lend him the photograph. Why would he go to all the trouble of stealing it when he didn’t have to?

Nora had about a hundred different chores she could have been accomplishing around the house, but all she could do was anxiously pace around the kitchen, knock off a Coke, and keep glancing out the window to see if Joe was still home. She just wanted him gone for an hour. Then she’d use her extra key to get into the garage apartment and search every inch of the place until she found something that might help her figure out what he was up to.

She heard the front door open, and raced into the hallway to see Chris returning from school. She didn’t even give him a chance to put down his books. “Hi, honey,” she said briskly. “Did you by any chance lend Joe a photo from the family album?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, pausing in the hallway. “I gave a picture of Jane with Uncle Ray to him yesterday afternoon so that he can get a copy made. Joe said he wanted to use Jane’s likeness for a peanut butter ad.” He moved into the family room and set his books on the desk. “Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, it’s fine,” Nora said, standing in the family room doorway. “I was just curious.”

She didn’t want to tell him that Joe might be investigating Ray. That would have meant admitting to Chris her suspicions about the explosion at Ray’s navy base. Nora had no intention of telling anyone about that, not if she could help it.

Chris took off his jacket and flung it on the back of a chair.

“You’re a little late today,” she remarked.

“Yeah, I swung by Mrs. Landauer’s,” he said glumly. “She called her attorney this morning. He got on the horn with the authorities. So, a couple of hours ago, they came and picked up Sono and Ruth. Sono was feeling much better today. And they felt okay about what they had decided to do. But everyone cried, I guess. Mrs. Landauer said the guys who came to pick them up were pretty decent about it. The lawyer was there the whole time. I don’t think anyone’s going to jail or anything. They said Sono and Ruth will probably end up in the Minidoka Relocation Center in Idaho. Isn’t that where Tak and Miko are?”

Nora nodded. She felt bad for everyone involved and wondered if Chris resented her for forcing the issue.

With a sigh, he headed toward the kitchen. “Anyway, Mrs. Landauer said my name didn’t come up once. Even her lawyer doesn’t know about my involvement. So, I guess that’s that.”

“I’m sorry, honey,” Nora said, “relieved, but sorry.”

He glanced out the window. “So have you decided what to do about Joe?”

“Right now, I wish he’d get lost for about an hour so I could take a look around the apartment,” Nora admitted. She leaned against the counter. “I’m sure he has something in there—some clue—that would give us an idea of what he’s doing here.”

Chris opened the refrigerator. “Can I have a Coke?”

“Sure,” she said distractedly.

“We’re almost out,” he said, taking a bottle from the shelf.

“I know. I’ll pick up some more. I need to go to the store later anyway.”

Chris took the bottle opener out of the drawer and opened his Coke. He went to the window again and gazed out toward the garage. “Mom, why don’t you go to the store now?” he said. A smile flickered on his face. “I have an idea. Give me about forty-five minutes. By the time you get back, Joe and I will both be gone. I’ll make sure he’s occupied for at least an hour. Does that give you enough time to go through the apartment?”

Nora could see the gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there when he’d come home a few minutes ago. “What are you planning to do?” she asked.

* * *

Chris staggered out the kitchen door and made his way to the garage apartment entrance. He banged on the door.

He’d just spent the last few minutes spinning in a circle in the front hall, where he couldn’t knock anything over. As a kid, he used to employ this tactic whenever he wanted to get out of going to school or church. About five minutes of constant spinning was all it took for him to feel and look as sick as hell. Very little acting was required after that. His mother would take one glance at him and put him to bed with a spit-up bowl. An hour later, like a miracle, he’d be fine. It had worked like a charm for a while—until his dad figured out the ruse. That was one of the disadvantages to having a father who was a doctor.

Actually, his mom had been wise to him all along. She’d told him so a few years ago: “I decided, if you wanted to avoid Mass, school or your chores so badly that you were willing to make yourself sick, then what the heck, I’d give you a break.”

That was the difference between his mom and his dad. His father was nobody’s fool and never let him get away with anything. But his mom let him goof off once in a while—even when it meant letting him think he’d pulled the wool over her eyes.

Chris wondered, if he hadn’t really fooled his mom when pretending to be sick as a kid, would he be any better at deceiving Joe now?

Maybe that was why he’d spun around a bit longer than he should have.

With one hand braced against the doorframe, Chris fought the nausea and dizziness. He heard Joe coming down the stairs. The door opened.

His head still swirling, Chris tried to focus on Joe, who was dressed in a paint-stained T-shirt and khakis. He was barefoot.

“My God, Chris, are you okay?” he asked. “You don’t look so hot . . .”

“I just threw up,” he lied, gasping for effect. “I feel like I’m going to die, my stomach hurts so bad. It’s getting worse—especially right here.” He pointed to his lower-right belly. “I checked my dad’s medical book, and I think it’s my appendix. My mom’s gone to the store. I don’t think I can last until she gets back. Could you drive me to the hospital?”

Joe stared at him. “Don’t you have a doctor you can call?”

Clutching his right side, Chris let out a sharp cry and bent forward. “Please, you got to get me to a hospital . . .”

“Okay, okay, hang on, Chris,” Joe said. “Let me grab the car keys and put on some shoes. Wait right there!” He turned and raced up the stairs.

Chris straightened up a bit. He was already feeling better.

When he’d told this plan to his mother, she’d had no trouble guessing what had inspired the notion. She’d commended him on his cleverness but hadn’t liked the prospect of Joe dangerously racing through traffic to get Chris to a hospital—and then wasting the doctors’ and nurses’ time with a fake emergency.

She’d suggested that he ask Joe to drive him to the University Bookstore for a book he needed for school. “I don’t know when the bookstore closes, but you can tell him it closes at six,” she’d said. “After that, you can stall him. That should give me enough time.”

His mom had even given him five dollars to buy any book he wanted. “As long as it’s believable that you’re reading the book for school,” she’d said.

After she’d left, Chris had decided there were too many variables with her “bookstore” plan. What if Joe refused? Or he might say, “Fine, take my car and drive yourself.” Chris felt the “appendicitis attack” ploy guaranteed Joe’s cooperation. And during the car ride, Chris wouldn’t have to make small talk with someone he no longer trusted or liked very much. He’d just pretend to be in pain and groan a lot.

Chris decided, when all this was over, he’d give his mom back her five dollars and apologize for not going along with her suggestion. If the last few days had taught him anything, it was that lying to his mom wasn’t a good idea.

He heard Joe coming down the stairs again. Chris clutched his stomach once more.

Joe had put on his shoes and thrown a jacket over his T-shirt. He double-locked his door. As they headed toward the LaSalle, Joe asked him if he’d left a note for his mother. Chris lied and said yes.

Joe got the passenger door for him. “Did you lock both doors to the house?”

Chris couldn’t remember. He stared at Joe for a moment.

“Chris, you just had a break-in, and I don’t want your mom coming home to any other surprises. Better give me the keys . . .”

Chris waited in the car while Joe locked the back door and went around to check the front. Chris wondered, if Joe was such a bad guy, why would he be looking after them like this?

After a minute, Joe climbed behind the wheel and gave the house keys back to him. He started up the car. “Listen, I don’t know where the hospital is,” he said, out of breath. “So you’ll have to give me directions. Can you do that?”

Chris groaned a little. “I think so,” he whimpered.

“That a boy,” Joe said. He began to back the LaSalle out of the driveway. “And since you’re feeling really sick, can you do me a favor and roll down your window?”

* * *

Standing at the top of the narrow stairwell to the garage apartment, Nora realized that, if Joe weren’t such a liar, he’d be an ideal tenant. Not only had he locked his door when he’d left, but he was quite tidy, too. The kitchen was spotless, and the only mess in the living room was around where he’d set up his easel, paints and a drop cloth.

Taking a closer look, Nora noticed some tubes of paint that had been left uncapped—as if Joe had left in a hurry. Chris must have caught him in the middle of his work. Nora had a feeling her son had stuck with his original plan to fake an appendicitis attack. If they’d gone to the bookstore, Joe would have stopped to put the caps back on his paint tubes.

Nora stepped around the easel to get a look at the painting.

“My God,” she murmured, astonished.

The nearly finished illustration was obviously an advertisement for Spam. It showed an infantry soldier with a tired grin on his face, eating Spam out of the can. He appeared to be in a jungle someplace, huddled under a makeshift tent to keep out of the rain. What was so startling about the painting was the soldier’s resemblance to Ray.

Since meeting Joe on Sunday, Jane had mentioned several times how much he looked like Uncle Ray. But the soldier in this ad was like a combination of both men—Ray especially.

Nora spotted Joe’s sketchbook leaning against the wall along with some painted canvases. She searched through the book and found pencil drawings that must have been preliminary sketches for more ads. Every ten or so pages she noticed a rendering of the same handsome Ray look-alike—smoking a pipe, eating an ice cream cone or dressed in a snazzy business suit, whatever the ad called for.

Then Nora remembered something Ray had told her, sitting over there at the kitchen table the night before he’d left. “No one tried to get to know me,” he’d said of the other men in his new unit. “They kept mistaking me for this other guy, Jackson, who’s a complete moron.”

Her brother knew Joe’s brother, Jackson. Ray and Jackson weren’t only at the same base; they were in the same unit. In all likelihood, it was no coincidence that Jackson had cleaned out his locker and disappeared at the time of the explosion.

After putting the sketchbook back, Nora moved to the living room’s built-in breakfront. On the counter sat a leather carrying case. Inside was a camera and some rolls of film. Nora started searching through the breakfront drawers. She found more tubes of paint, paintbrushes, pencil sets and other art supplies. One drawer held a shoebox full of photographs. She recognized the shots of Jackson that Joe had used for some of those preliminary ads in his sketchbook. Another one of his models was a girl who looked a bit like Rita Hayworth. From the photos, she and Joe seemed to be romantically linked. One of the shots showed them at the beach—with the girl in a polka-dot two-piece suit. Nora found a photobooth strip of the two of them, and they were kissing in one of the frames. On the back, he’d scribbled: With Carol @ Fisherman’s Wharf—June ’41. Nora couldn’t help wondering if Joe and Carol were still an item. There were other photos, older ones of the brothers together, growing up. Nora also found a formal studio portrait of Jackson alone—in his sailor uniform. She could see why the guys in their outfit got Jackson and Ray mixed up. Jackson had signed the photograph: To My Big Brother—Ship Ahoy! Andy.

Nora placed all the photos back in the shoebox and returned it to the drawer. In the last drawer she checked, under a short stack of folded paper bags, she found some bills, bank statements and letters—all addressed to Joseph Slattery at a Seattle post office box. Some of the mail had been forwarded from 1459 Cole Street in San Francisco.

So, Joe wasn’t married and he wasn’t from Albany, Oregon. Before moving to Seattle, he had lived in San Francisco.

One of the letters was from an aunt, thanking him and his brother for sending her flowers on her birthday. She mentioned that Jackson had sent her a nice card. Reading between the lines, Nora wondered if this aunt had had a hand in raising them. The same aunt had sent him an Easter card. There were no letters from Carol.

Nora put everything back in its place and closed the drawer.

She headed into the bedroom and started going through the closet. It smelled like Joe’s cologne. Nora saw a shoebox on the shelf. Inside, she expected to find more photos or some documents. But there was only a pair of two-tone shoes. She noticed the labels on his clothes: The Emporium, City of Paris, and other San Francisco stores.

After glancing under the bed and finding nothing, Nora checked the dresser. In the back of the bottom drawer, under some sweaters, she discovered a thick folder. On top of all the papers and photographs was the photo of Ray and Jane at the picnic. Beneath that, she found a manila envelope addressed to Joe at the Seattle post office box. The return address was Robert Gold, San Diego, Calif.

Nora brought the folder over to the bed and sat down. She carefully slid two eight-by-ten photographs out of the manila envelope. A note was paper-clipped to them:

April 30th

Joe,

Hope this is what you were looking for. It’s from the San Diego Union-Tribune. You were right about the date: March 21st. Hope you can read this. These photos were the best I could do. Keep me up to date on what you find up there in Seattle. Good luck, Buddy.

Bob

Nora studied the first photo, which was of a newspaper article—with the headline:

TWO UNIVERSITY HEIGHTS WOMEN BRUTALLY SLAIN

Below the headline were two slightly blurry photographs, each of a young woman, one blonde, one brunette. The caption read: Phyllis Thorpe, 23 (left), and Elizabeth “Betty” Rodenkirk, 25 (right), were roommates and worked on the assembly line at Consolidated Aircraft Corporation.

Nora thought it strange Ray had never mentioned that two female war workers had been murdered in San Diego—only two weeks before Loretta Bryant had been strangled in Seattle. He’d been recuperating in the naval hospital on March twenty-first and would have had nothing to do but read the newspaper. The Loretta Bryant murder had come up in conversation at the dinner party—and later, Jane had mentioned it a few times in front of Ray. Why hadn’t he said anything about this double murder near where he’d been stationed?

Nora anxiously read the article. The two young women were strangled and stabbed repeatedly. The bodies were found in their hallway outside the bedroom. Both women had been employed at the plant for seven months. They were riveters.

A coworker called their landlady when the roommates hadn’t shown up at the plant. The landlady let herself into the apartment and discovered the bodies.

The police were searching for the killer, who might have known both women. There was no sign of forced entry. Neighbors in the apartment house told the police they hadn’t heard any screams.

Nora was frustrated that the article didn’t go into detail about the crime scene. There was no reference to any of the “flourishes” the “Rosie” killer would later add to his murders—the lipstick smile, the apron, and the work pants on display by the front door of each victim. Then again, for each new murder he seemed to be refining his signature touches.

And with these two poor young women in San Diego, he’d only been getting started.