Pennies on a Dead Woman's Eyes (20 page)

“No apology necessary,” From
you
, I added silently. “How do you feel about going ahead with the mock trial?”

“I want to more than ever now.”

“Is your father still opposed?”

“Yes.”

“Will that pose a problem for you?”

No more than it did before. I can handle him.” She leaned toward me, eyes filled with an intensity that was augmented by the glare of the chandelier on her round lenses. Her fingers grasped my arm, almost painfully. Again I was reminded of her mother.

“I want the trial,” she said. “I want it for Lis's sake, to clear her name. But I want it for me, too. I have to settle this. You understand, don't you?”

I nodded, removing my arm from her grasp. “We'll go ahead, then. But I'm going to have to ask you a question. Please don't take offense.”

“I'll try not to.”

“Could your father—Joseph Stameroff, I mean—have planted in your mind some of the testimony you gave at Lis's trial?”

“He . . . wouldn't have done that.”

“But
could
he have? Say, during his pretrial visits to you in the foster home.”

She frowned; I could tell she was working hard at controlling her temper.

“Think about it, Judy: you've said you don't remember the things you testified to, that it was as if they'd happened to somebody else.”

“I also told you there's a lot I don't remember. I never realized how much until it started coming back.” She shivered, pulled the black folds of the cape around her.

“Have you remembered other things since we last talked?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Well . . . the day after Lis . . . died, I had . . . it wasn't a dream so much as an image, when I was just on the edge of sleeping. In the image I was on the third floor of the house—the one in Seacliff—looking out the window of my old room at night. There was a heavy fog. The towers of the bridge were lit up, but the mist made them look . . . unreal. And there was something in the dark under the window. I was afraid, really afraid.” She shook her head. “This is stupid, but just talking about it frightens me.”

“Sometimes mental images can be more frightening than reality, especially when they're not all that clear. This thing under the window—was it a person? An animal?”

“I don't know.”

“Did it move? Stay in one place?”

“It moved: I was afraid it would come into the house, up to my room.”

“Did it?”

“I don't know. That's all there was.”

I considered. During my library research, I'd learned that there had been an unusually heavy fog the night of the McKittridge murder—the kind of fog I'd imagined as I stood in front of the Seacliff house last week, the kind of fog Judy described. It seemed to me that the image she'd seen while half asleep could actually be a true memory of that night. And the thing that moved in the dark? Cordy's killer?

Judy said, suddenly and vehemently, “I wish it would
all
come back! I need to know.”

Much as I understood that, and much as I wanted the old case resolved, I felt I should caution her. “Maybe it's better if you don't remember. You must have had a powerful reason for repressing as much as you have.”

“No, it's
not
better. I can't live with this . . . void any longer. I can't get on with my life until I know that Lis was telling the truth about not committing that murder.”

“Have you seen anyone about these memories? A therapist?”

Her expression became closed; she shook her head.

“Maybe you should.”

“Let me handle this in my own way, will you?” The words were clipped, almost angry. Before I could frame a reply, she demanded. “Now, how are you going to proceed with this case?”

Swallowing my annoyance, I said, “I did want to talk with your father again, but from what you tell me, that's impossible. I need to speak a second time with Leonard Eyestone. And I want to tour the Seacliff property.”

“How do you plan to manage that?”

“The house is for sale. I'll call my real-estate broker and arrange to see it.”

“For an expensive property like that, you may have to pre-qualify before they'll show it.”

“The broker is a friend; she'll find a way.”

“Why do you want to go there?”

“Just to see where it all happened.”

“I haven't set foot on that property since my parents and I moved to Lake Street right after the murder.” Conflicting emotions washed over her face—discomfort, hesitancy, and finally eagerness. “Sharon,” she said, “take me with you.”

The request took me completely by surprise. Quickly I searched for a way to dissuade her.

“Please,” she added. “It might help me remember.”

“I'm not sure that's wise.” What if a calling-up of her memories precipitated a major emotional crisis?

“You're treating me like a child, the way my father does. With him it's always, ‘Judy, you don't want to know. You don't want to remember.' Well, I
do
, dammit!”

“All I'm saying is that maybe that's not the right way to remember.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” She thrust her jaw forward and added, “If you don't take me, I'll go on my own. Any broker would be glad to show me the property; I can trade on the Stameroff name.”

Our eyes locked; hers were intractable. After a moment I said, “Let me see what I can arrange.”

As soon as I got home, I unearthed an old address book and called a friend from college, Mary Norton, who was now a therapist at a Sacramento Street clinic. Mary was just coming out of a group session and had my call transferred to her office. It had been more than two years since we'd gotten together, so we swapped news and gossip for close to ten minutes before I could get to my reason for calling. After briefly outlining Judy Benedict's experience with resurfacing memories, I asked, “Does this sort of thing happen often? And how accurate are the memories?”

“To answer your first question, repressed memory is a fairly common phenomenon. We see it a lot in abused children. Was this woman abused sexually or physically?”

“I doubt it, but the father was an alcoholic and frequently beat the mother, so the environment was abusive.”

“And you say she's forgotten most of the events surrounding the murder and trial?”

“Yes. She says her testimony sounds as if it happened to someone else.”

“That's consistent. If a child suffers one single traumatic event, she usually won't be capable of repressing it. But in this case, where it was a continuing trauma . . . is the woman a self-blamer?”

“She feels guilty because she testified against her mother.”

“And probably about a lot of other things, too. Children, especially those who have been abused in any way, tend to believe they're responsible for the bad things that happen in their lives.”

“Okay,” I said, “the repression is brought on by a series of events that the child's mind can't handle. As protection, the memory shuts down. What makes it come back?”

“Sometimes when the grown individual's ego structure is strong enough to handle them, the memories just filter to the surface in response to mild stimuli. As in your client's case, where her mother had come back into her everyday life. Or it can be more dramatic. You remember that murder trial down the Peninsula a few years ago? The Susan Nason case?”

“Yes.” Eight-year-old Susan Nasons' 1969 murder had gone unsolved until 1989, when her best friend came forward, saying that she had seen her own father kill her playmate. The long-repressed memory was triggered by the friend seeing the same expression in her young daughter's eyes as she'd seen in Susan's immediately before she died: psychologists for the prosecution had so well documented the phenomenon that the jury returned a first-degree verdict.

“That was a terrible example of spontaneous unblocking,” Mary said. “As for the accuracy of the memories, they're often clearer and far more detailed than ordinary memory, as if they've been frozen or preserved. Sometimes they may have been distorted by shock or fear—in which case it takes some interpretation to get at the facts—but most of the time a true memory is easily distinguished because of the richness of detail.”

I consulted the scribbled notes I'd been making. “You say the memory becomes unblocked when the individual's ego structure can withstand it. What if a person receives a strong stimulus before she's ready to deal with the memory? Will it come anyway?”

“It might, and that can cause further trauma. What are you trying to get at, Sharon?”

I explained about Judy's insistence on visiting the Seacliff property. “I'm afraid it might push her over the edge.”

Mary hesitated. “Well, I don't know her, and there's no way to predict reactions except on a case-by-case basis. But I'd say that if she wants to recall that badly, she's probably ready. Is she seeing anyone about this?”

“No. I tried to broach the subject, but she closed off entirely.”

“Why, do you think?”

“She strikes me as someone who wants to handle her problems on her own.”

“Maybe she can.”

“Maybe, but I can't form any opinion of how stable she is, particularly now that her mother's been murdered. And I'm in a bind, because if I don't take her along, she'll probably go on her own.”

“And that could do her more harm than if she went with someone.”

“So what should I do?”

Again Mary hesitated. “You know I can't advise you without evaluating her, but . . . in a case such as the one you describe, it would be better if she saw the property in the company of someone she cares for and trusts.”

Jack. Of course—I'd take both of them. “Thanks for the non-advice, Mary.”

“Any time. And my advice to you is to do better about keeping in touch.”

I promised I would. Then I dialed my real estate broker, Cathy Potter, and left a message on her answering machine. By this time I was starving, so I went into the kitchen and put a frozen lasagna in the microwave. While the oven whirred and the food whirled, I considered calling Hy later on, then remembered he'd gone to San Diego. Maybe it was just as well I didn't have a number for him; I wasn't really in a talkative mood.

The microwave beeped. I dumped the lasagna onto a plate and wolfed it down while paging through an L.L. Bean catalog. The Benedict trail transcript lay on the table beneath the morning's unread newspaper; my fingers inched toward it, and I pulled them back as if it were too hot to the touch.

Not tonight, I cautioned myself. No bad dream for one night, at least.

I got up, tidied the kitchen. My gaze kept creeping toward the transcript. I went into the sitting room, considered a couple of novels waiting to be read, consulted the
TV Guide
. I could still feel the pull from the kitchen. Finally I surrendered, got the transcript, and paged through it—looking once again for the reasons why.

The anonymous phone call came at five minutes after three that morning. The voice was male, heavily accented.

It said, “You don't want to die, you lay off the Benedict thing.”

At eight-ten the next morning I opened my front door and found garbage strewn all over my walk. Slick, slimy garbage—and not mine, either—that looked and smelled as if it had been rotting for weeks.

A choking mixture of nausea and rage rose in my throat; I went back inside, slamming the door and leaning against it. Maybe it won't be there when I go out again, I told myself. Maybe some Good Samaritan who likes handling garbage and hosing down walks will happen along.

Yeah—and maybe pigs would fly and I'd win the lottery.

I returned to the kitchen and poured my second cup of coffee. The cordless phone receiver sat amid a welter of grocery coupons and junk mail on the table; I picked it up and punched out the number for the SFPD Homicide. Joslyn was already in, and unconscionably cheerful.

“Hey, Sharon, what've you got for me?” she asked.

“What I've got is about a ton of garbage all over my front walk.”

“Kids or dogs get into it?”

“No. It appears to have been trucked here especially for me.”

“Jesus, I know they've got mail-order catalogs for everything, but couldn't you have stuck with the Sharper Image?” Then she added more seriously, “You figure this to be a variation on the graffiti?”

“Uh-huh. Along with the death threat that came by phone in the middle of the night.”

“Getting creative, isn't he? What've you been doing to bring this down?”

Briefly I reported my activities since I'd last seen her.

When I finished, she said, “Look, I thought you realized you were to keep out of our case. You should have left Nueva to us.”

“You've admitted the two cases could be connected. If you aren't sure by now, you're suffering from linkage blindness. What you're asking—for me to investigate the past but drop everything pertaining to the present—isn't feasible or productive.”

She was silent.

“I've reported everything to you. I'm saving you legwork. What more do you want me to do?”

“I want you to be careful you don't jeopardize our investigation—or our jobs. From now on don't call me here; you've got my home number.”

“You and Bart really
are
paranoid.”

“We've got every reason to be, given who we're going up against.” She hung up, leaving me open-mouthed and more than a bit irritated.

For a moment I considered calling her back. After all, I was doing her a favor, and what I'd gotten so far for my pains was a sleepless night and some garbage. But then I reconsidered. Police powers over private investigators are wide and discretionary when there's a homicide involved; I didn't want Joslyn ordering me not to investigate at all. So instead of venting my annoyance on her, I put on old jeans and a T-shirt and went outside to tend to the mess. As I shoveled and hosed down the walk, I was interrupted several times by neighbors, either wanting to know what had happened or expressing disapproval because I was wasting water. Afterward I took a long-hot shower—wasting water again, but behind closed doors.