Rose Marie is trying something a little different, serializing a book she has written — "The Evil Men Do." Each month she will be sharing a chapter with you. As the months go by, you will be able to go back and re-read previous chapters if you wish to. This book is presented here exactly as she has written it. We welcome your thoughts on both the book itself and the process we are trying. So — jump in!

If you missed previous chapters, they can be read here: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7

The Evil Men Do  — Chapter Eight

He almost missed his appointment because of a phone call. Sgt. Hinckley. "Can you come down to the station?" he asked.
Stu assumed it was the lineup Hinckley said he needed him for. "I told you I didn’t see the man clearly enough to identify him," Stu said.
"It’s not a lineup," Hinckley said.
"Then what?"
"Something worse."
Stu wanted to know what would happen if he refused but decided not to take the chance. He sensed that Hinckley had it in for him ever since high school. Students who attended the area’s excellent public schools performed above the parochial school students, who became troublemakers and truants when they failed to make the grade. Funny that Hinckley should turn out to be a cop. "I have an appointment in town," he said.
"It won’t take long," Hinckley told him. "Five minutes is all." 

When Stu walked into the station, he found Hinckley waiting for him. Hinckley walked him into the same shabby meeting room they had been in before and said, "there’s been another one. Guess you weren’t home this time."
"Another rape? At the marsh?"
"Not exactly," Hinckley said.
"Then why are you telling me?"
"Didn’t start at the marsh but finished there," Hinckley said. "This time it was murder."
"Murder!"
"Mighta been an accident," Hinckley said. "The murder part. She had a bad heart, kept it to herself so nobody knew about it."
"Who was it?" Stu asked, hoping it was no one he knew.
Hinckley told him, but the name was unfamiliar. "Suppose you have an alibi for last night," he said, a question disguised as a statement.
"I was at a party," Stu said. "From 6 to about 2." Was he a suspect? Surely, it would take more than Hinckley’s prejudice to indict him. Stu hoped.
"And just like before, you heard nothing later on, when he was dumping the body."

Stu looked at his watch. "I got home late. Can I go now?" 
On the street, Stu searched his mind for a reason: why the marsh? In dumping his victims there, he was making the marsh a victim too. It seemed to him that the choice of scene was deliberate. Why hadn’t the police surveilled the place? And why did Hinckley consider him a suspect? If he wasn’t just posturing.
Climbing into the tiny car, Stu drove east and entered the Long Island Expressway, relieved that he was not going to be late for his appointment with Dr. T. J. (Ted) Berenson, Prudhomme’s physician. His psychiatrist. Lately Stu had driven to the city so often he felt like he was working there already. Making the transition, from working at home to working in an office, from artist to businessman, wouldn’t be as hard as he feared.

Before leaving the house, before Hinckley’s call, he had done something else he’d been putting off, taken the initiative and phoned Janet. When she answered, her voice sleepy, he felt a pang. It had been too early to call, but she didn’t sound angry. She only commented , "you’re up early," which made him feel like a fool. "I’m sorry if I woke you up," was all he could think of to say.
"You didn’t. That is, the alarm was about to go off anyway."
"Will you go sailing with me?" He didn’t know what her reaction would be but couldn’t wait any longer to tell her he wanted to see her again, see what she’d say. To his surprise, she accepted his invitation, asking only when. "How about tomorrow."
"Uh-uh, I have to work. What about Sunday?"
"Sunday’s great." He told himself not to make too much out of her assent. No doubt she just wanted to go sailing—he didn’t know and didn’t care.

"You drove by the house yesterday," she said, "but you didn’t stop."
"I didn’t think you were home."
"But you wouldn’t have stopped even if you knew we were home, would you? It wouldn’t be smart if you did, Per feeling as he does."
"You think he’ll ever come around?"
"Why should he? Why should I, for that matter? Don’t think it means anything because I said I’d go sailing. It’s just, I don’t get the chance that often."
"I understand."
"We can be friends, but that’s all."
"That’s enough," Stu lied.
"I better go, I have to get ready for work," she said. "I joined a gym, and I go there first. I need the exercise."
"No, you don’t."
"Don’t start. I won’t tell Per we’re going sailing. He’d be upset, and I don’t want him upset. He’s still fragile. When you pick me up, park down a ways. I’ll look out the window, and when I see you I’ll come out."
"What happens if we start dating? What will Per do then?"
"We won’t."
"Because there’s somebody else?" From her hesitation, he guessed there was. "Forget it, it’s none of my business." He could imagine how Per felt about him. About him and Prudhomme both. The Prudhommes were takers, users, and people like Per and Janet were the ones who got taken and used. Used up. Stu could imagine Mathiesen saying that, and the worst thing about it was, he was right. She had been a silly schoolgirl who had never been hurt. Till he came along.
He wondered if now she was planning some kind of payback and decided he didn’t mind if she was. He’d make it as easy for her as he could. He deserved all she could dish out. "Have you told him," he asked, meaning Per, "you’re trying to get the marina back?"

"Would you believe it? He says he doesn’t want it."
"You think he means it?"
"Unlike some people, he usually does mean what he says." No doubt about it, Stu had his work cut out for him. Strangely enough, however, Per’s hatred did not discourage him. It only convinced him that he had to work harder now that he had something to work for.
"Maybe he’ll change his mind."
"Don’t count on it," she said.

Traffic was heavy on the Long Island Expressway, and Stu realized he should have made a later appointment to avoid the rush of cars headed for jobs downtown. Lucky Hinckley hadn’t detained him long. Already late, he didn’t waste time looking for a parking space but pulled into the first lot he saw, even though it was ten blocks from Berenson’s office. By that time he was later, and by the time he reached Dr. Berenson’s office in a discreetly expensive building on the east side, he was hoping he wasn’t too late and the doctor would still see him.
The doctor had a waiting room but no receptionist, only a name on a bronze plaque on the door to his office. T. J. Berenson, M.D.,P.C. Only last week, Mrs. Boyle, in one of the rambling narratives that accompanied her cleaning whenever he was around to hear them, confided that she was going to a new doctor. She said he was some kind of professor because he had "P.C." on his door. Her former doctor was a mere M.D. When Stu informed her that P.C. just meant Professional Corporation, she acted annoyed, whether at the doctor or him he wasn’t sure.

After Stu had sat for thirty minutes, the door to the inner office opened, and a thirty-ish woman in a black suit, a high-necked white blouse and black heels walked out. She walked slowly at first, dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex, but when she spied Stu she looked surprised and walked faster, slamming the door on the way out.
"My patients are not used to running into each other." Berenson appeared in the doorway. He was casually dressed, in jeans and a tweed jacket, a plaid ascot around his neck. 
"I’m not a patient."
"I know. But she was." A bad start. Stu followed him into his office, expensively furnished in subdued colors. An oak desk stood in front of heavy dark blue drapes, and the upholstery pattern on the two comfortable-looking chairs and couch matched the drapes. A thick beige carpet cushioned their steps. Berenson looked at his watch. "Lucky for you, a patient canceled or I wouldn’t have been able to see you."
"You’re a psychiatrist?" Stu wanted to confirm it. Berenson looked more like a math professor than a doctor. "My father was one of the sanest people I ever met. I know a person isn’t crazy because he visits a psychiatrist, but he wasn’t neurotic either. He always knew what he wanted and how to get it." Stu knew he should shut up and let Berenson talk and resolved not to say any more.
"Sometimes people just want to talk to somebody who has no axe to grind, somebody uninvolved. If they’ve reached a crisis in their lives and need help understanding themselves better. If they no longer know what they want, or they know, but they’re afraid of the consequences. We live in a complex society. A person can lead a quiet life for years, a life that follows a certain pattern, and then one day they wake up and the pattern isn’t right for them anymore. You can imagine the kind of inner turmoil that can cause."
"You’re saying my father had that problem?"
"You realize I can’t give you details."
"Even though he’s dead."
"Even though."

Stu made a decision. "I don’t believe he committed suicide. I’m hoping you’ll tell me something that will give me a clue what really happened."
"Have you talked to the police?"
"They’re satisfied. I’m not."
"You feel guilty," stated Berenson.
"Probably," Stu agreed.
Berenson sighed. "I don’t know if he killed himself or not, but it seems unlikely. He had plans. People don’t usually make plans and then commit suicide."
Stu nodded. "Did he talk about me? Tell you what a disappointment I was?" He didn’t know why he brought it up. What did he expect Berenson to say?
"He felt like he didn’t know you, but he blamed himself for that. He didn’t expect you to understand what he was planning to do."
"What was that?" Stu clenched his fists. He didn’t know what to expect. Was Berenson implying that he was the cause of whatever Prudhomme planned to do? He asked Berenson that.
"Not at all. He knew you wouldn’t understand because you didn’t know what he knew."
"Do you?" Stu asked.
"No. He didn’t want anyone to know."
"Can you guess?" Stu asked.
"Even if I could, I wouldn’t. If he wanted you to know, he’d have told you. I can understand if you feel resentful."
"Don’t analyze me," Stu said. "You think he committed suicide?"
"Possibly."

Possibly. What kind of an answer was that? "No," Stu said. "No, it’s not possible. He wasn’t the type."
Berenson nodded. "He wanted to change his life, but in the end he might not have had the courage."
"He had plenty of courage."
Berenson nodded again. "He felt all he knew was how to make money yet money was no help to him in this current crisis."
"Crisis? Was he sick?"
"He wasn’t sick," Berenson said. "Not so far as I know. If he was seeing a medical doctor, he didn’t tell me."
"What was planning to do?"
Instead of telling him, Berenson said, "he painted too. That’s probably where you got it from. He said you’re an artist."
Stu didn’t deny it. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"He had decided to go away. Like Gaughin. To the south seas and devote the rest of his life to art." Stu put a hand up to his face to hide his shock, but it must have showed. "News to you, I see."
"News, and I can’t believe it," Stu said. "He told you that?"
Berenson seemed annoyed, why? Because Stu didn’t believe him? "He did paint."
"He dabbled. I was the artist," Stu said, "and for that reason he found fault with me constantly, he thought I should be out there making money, like him. Why object to me being an artist if he was going to turn around and do the same thing?"
Berenson smirked. "Don’t you think he earned the right to do as he pleased?"
"Whereas I haven’t," Stu said.
"He may have felt that way."
"Is that all you have to tell me?"

They studied each other. Stu glanced around the office, and his eyes lit on a file cabinet. How would Berenson feel if he got up and started riffling through those files? Would he call the police? Berenson saw the direction his eyes had taken and shook his head. "Those files are confidential," he said. "If you looked at the file, you wouldn’t find much anyway. I don’t write down everything, and when I do write anything down I use a code.
"So," Stu said, "you’re telling me something happened recently that shocked him so much he decided to throw away his life."
"Throw it away? That’s a little strong. He decided to go in a different direction is all. The only alternative was to tell the police, but he refused.
"The police? What are you saying?"
"You may be right," Berenson admitted. "If he changed his mind, it would mean jail time for somebody."
"It sounds like you’re agreeing with me that he was murdered," Stu said. "Will you tell the police?"
"I don’t know what happened, and neither do you."

Stu stumbled out of the office and down the stairs, coming to his senses in the lobby with no recollection how he got there. It was lunch time, which accounted for crowds of pedestrians passing him right and left. Despite having left home without eating, due to Hinckley’s early call, he wasn’t hungry. Prudhomme running away. Stu couldn’t imagine it. What was he running away from? Who else knew? Berenson, who must know but had not written it down, or written it in code, had been afraid to consign it to paper. 

Prudhomme going off to Tahiti, Prudhomme believing himself another Gaughin. It was ludicrous, a parody of the way Stu himself had been living. Except he had not left the country, nor planned to. For once, however, Prudhomme had not been able to change destiny. Death had intervened and prevented him.
Stu pulled out his call phone, called Sharon. From his voice, she inferred that something had happened. "I spoke to Dr. Berenson," he said. "That happened. I feel like I’ve been run over with a truck."
"You better come over. Are you still in the city?"
He told her his location, said he was on his way. Leaving the car in the lot, he walked uptown.
"What happened?" she asked, searching his face. "How much did Berenson tell you?"
"He told me Prudhomme was going away—to Tahiti." He remembered that she didn’t like hearing him refer to his father as Prudhomme, waited for her to say something, recalled her question, how much had Berenson told him. "You knew?"
She turned her back, and he followed her into the apartment and closed the door. "Oh, yes. I knew."
"And you didn’t think it was important enough to tell me?"
"I thought I’d let Berenson do it. I was sure he would."
"I almost didn’t believe it—except something had changed. I could sense that much. I asked him why, but he wouldn’t tell me. Or couldn’t. You know that too?" Stu asked. "Berenson hinted it was something he found out recently. Whatever it was, it must have been pretty bad. Berenson said it meant jail for somebody. You know what it was?"
"No," she said, turning her face away. "He didn’t tell me the details. I didn’t care. All I wanted to know was if he was going to take me with him."
"You realize whoever Berenson was talking about probably killed him."
She nodded. "He was scared. At first I thought it was a stage, his wanting to go off somewhere. Men go through stages too. Mid-life crises. But then I realized he was scared."

A stage. Stu could have laughed at the idea, except what had happened was no laugh. Of course, Prudhomme scared was equally unbelievable.
"He started looking over his shoulder," she said. "I think somebody was threatening him."
"You don’t know who, you can’t guess?"
"Somebody who knew him," she said.
"Well, duh." She glared at him, and he said, "Sorry, but of course it was somebody who knew him." He thought a bit. "Which means a lot of people. Including family members. For instance, my uncles must be glad he’s finally out of the way." Even George, whose debts had vanished thanks to Prudhomme’s untimely death.
"I wish he told me," she said. "Either it happened recently, or he found out recently. What was he involved in recently?"
"I don’t know," Stu admitted sadly. "He didn’t talk to me, I didn’t ask questions. Some development or other, somewhere or other."
"He was afraid by telling you he’d be putting you in danger."
Stu shook his head. "He didn’t trust me."
"He was trying to protect you."
"Protect me from what? From whom?"
"I don’t know," she admitted. "But there must be something. He’s dead, isn’t he?"
"Berenson thinks it could have gone either way, suicide or murder."
She sighed. "Have the police questioned him?"
"No, but he won’t tell them anything if they did," Stu said. "Patient privacy."
"Even though he’s dead?"
"That’s what he said." Stu remembered the weeping woman who’d turned her face away when she saw him.

Another question occurred to him which he was afraid to ask. It was none of his business. He asked anyway. "You said you were only interested in whether he’d take you with him. Did he ask you to go along?"
Stu’s question met with silence. Had Prudhomme suggested taking her with him? Somehow he thought the answer would be no.
"No."
Stu felt ashamed for her until he realized how much anger, resentment she must have harbored. He didn’t want to consider her a suspect.
"He was hoping you’d take over, was waiting for you to come to your senses." She smiled. "He wasn’t one to give up easily."
"You’re telling me," Stu agreed. "Why did we never discuss it, why didn’t he confide in me? He could’ve told me, I’d’ve understood."
"You think so?"
"I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t ask him because I thought he wouldn’t tell me, but I wish I asked." The corners of Stu’s mouth turned down while he brooded, envisaging a different outcome. "I wish he confided in me for once. I guess he didn’t see the point." She stepped closer, touched his arm. He didn’t react, and she dropped her hand.
"What do you know about his business partner, Reed?" she asked.
"Not much. Why do you ask?" He considered telling her about Reed’s arrest for manslaughter, saw no reason not to.
"Knowing that, why did he want Reed working for him?" she asked.
"No idea."
"You think he didn’t know?"
Stu shook his head. "Not only did he know, they were together. My father was attacked, Reed defended him."
"Self defense then," she said. "He was in Reed’s debt, not the other way around."
"Dr. Berenson asked me what my father was working on recently, said he found out something recently. He had plans to develop the marsh, but he changed his mind. About developing it, I mean, but he didn’t tell me even though he knew how I felt about it. I was against it from the start, and he knew it."
"How do you know he changed his mind?" she asked.

He told her about Forster, his surprise at finding out that Prudhomme had joined Forster’s efforts to save the marsh.
"Did Reed know?" she asked. 
"I’m not sure. Forster was surprised my father was so easy to talk out of it. I was surprised too, I tried and failed, and I live there. They were going to drain the marsh, develop it the same way they develop all those places and put up a mall or something. All that wildlife. It used to be a bird sanctuary, but they had enough clout to get the zoning changed."
"Your father said Reed was against it too," she said.
"That’s even more surprising. Those two suddenly becoming conservationists?"
"See that painting?" She gestured with her head toward the painting behind her.
"What about it?"
"You want it?"
"You asked me already. You keep it, it’s yours, he gave it to you."
"Except I’m supposed to give it to Reed," she said, frowning suddenly.
"You have any idea why?"
"No idea." She glanced at the clock, visible in the kitchen, a Felix the Cat clock whose tail moved back and forth with each moment. I’m expecting company," she said." 
Jealous, he asked, "anyone I know?"
"You may," she admitted. "He worked for your father."

On his way to the door, Stu stopped in his tracks. "Not Roy Jenkins."
"So you do know him."
"So soon, Sharon?"
She flushed. "It’s not like that. Your father introduced us."
"I don’t trust him," Stu said, "and you shouldn’t either. He sprang up out of nowhere. Who is he, where’s he from, and if the firm is in trouble, like everybody says, why was he hired?"
"Don’t be like him." Stu knew who she meant. "He didn’t trust anybody."
"Should I be like you instead, trust everybody?"
"Touche," she said. "Give me a chance, Stu. Maybe I can find out something."
"Is that the reason you’re seeing him? I wish you wouldn’t."
"Don’t worry."
"Promise me you’ll be careful," Stu cautioned.
"Of course." 

He gazed into her eyes, willing her to feel about Jenkins the way he did, unable to tell if he was making an impression. Realizing there was nothing he could do, he said, "I’ll go then. You have class tomorrow?"
She grimaced. "I always have class tomorrow. At least, it seems that way. I wish now I’d given myself the summer off, but I keep telling myself it won’t be long." She brushed the hair away from her forehead. "God, I hate this weather. I wish it would rain and get it over with."
"Don’t forget what I said. About being careful." Turning back at the door, "If something comes up, you’ll phone me?"
"Of course."
Firmly, she closed the door behind him. In a hurry to get rid of him. Never mind. On the street, he thought, what the hell. Time to stop putting it off. He took out his cell and phoned his uncles, Prudhomme’s other brothers, the twins. To his surprise, they told him they had been expecting him to call. "Why’s that?" he asked.
"Some things we need to discuss."
Stu’s heart sank. Was he about to become embroiled in an argument already? "You want to give me a hint what about?" he asked, certain that it was about the firm’s financial troubles.
"When you get here," he said. Which uncle was it, Jonah or Edgar? They sounded the same.
"Who is this?" Stu asked. "I’m in the city now," he said. 
"It’s Edgar. Now’s not a good time. Let’s make it tomorrow," he said. Sometimes it was Edgar, sometimes Jonah who answered the phone. They had asked him not to call them uncle any more. Made them sound too old, they said, now that Stu was in his thirties. He wouldn’t have guessed that they were so vain, except that it ran in the family.

He almost wished they had put him off, but now he had no choice but to go. Another trip into the city. One of these days, he thought, he’d be moving into Prudhomme’s old office—if it was available, if Jenkins hadn’t already taken it over. If the firm was still in business. 
Driving home, Stu thought that Sharon was getting over Prudhomme’s death faster than anticipated. How much of the reason was the money Prudhomme had left her? Now she could afford to take that trip to Paris. How much of the reason was Roy Jenkins? Why had Prudhomme introduced them? Roy suspected that Jenkins had engineered the meeting. Why? However it had occurred, the fact that Prudhomme had introduced them made her think that he would have approved. She had talked about prior mistakes. Was this going to be another of them? Stu hit the steering wheel with his palm, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He hoped she’d be safe until the fall, when she was going to Paris. It was none of Stu’s business what she did.
Stu had a hard time falling asleep that night, tossing and turning, one minute raging at Prudhomme as if he were still alive and could reply to his angry questions, the next minute furious with himself for not getting involved, not demanding the answers to his questions while Prudhomme was still alive. 
In this way, he passed a fretful night and finally opted to get out of bed before the alarm went off. As usual, he padded over to the window and peered out. Normally, only the marsh itself, lonely and, in his present mood, dismal, greeted him. Today, however, he saw the figure of a man walking back and forth. He seemed to be measuring. Stu dressed quickly in jeans and boots and went out to see what was going on. To his surprise, he recognized Roy Jenkins. Jenkins wore a suit and leather shoes; he was wet up to the knees. "Should’ve worn what you’re wearing," he said.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking around, taking measurements."
"Why?"
"For the project—you haven’t heard?"
"There’s not going to be any project," Stu said.

Jenkins recognized him then. "I met you the other day," he said, "in Reed’s office."
"Mr. Reed, you mean, don’t you?"
"Yeah, sure, whatever. Mr. Reed. What’s your problem?"
"No problem. I don’t believe in developing every single open space, that’s all. The marsh is no good for anything," he told Jenkins. "Draining it costs too much for development to be worthwhile. The only thing it’s good for is as a place for wildlife, and too many of those areas have already been destroyed."
Jenkins laughed mirthlessly. "I bet there’s a few bodies buried here too. Least that’s the gossip."
"The locals are getting together a protest, and I intend to join them. There’s a petition being circulated."
"Have you talked to Reed?" Jenkins asked.
"He’s against it too," Stu said. "He was against it from the start."
"Talk to him again," Jenkins said. "He changed his mind."

Check Next Month's Issue for Chapter 9