Winter of frozen dreams (5 page)

tance, and her voice held an urgency not normally present. Barbara was in trouble, and she needed him.

When Jans Health Spa premiered in 1973, it was strictly a no-frills establishment. Enter with even mild expectations, and the first reaction was disappointment. At worst one anticipated a facade of civility. Instead the place reeked of sex. Jans offered black walls, blue lights, and glassy-eyed girls in high heels and chintzy negligees who masturbated men with all the tenderness of fish market vendors. The lack of glamour and pretense, however, did not hurt business. On any given evening men milled about the lobby, drinking rum and Coke out of Styrofoam cups, telling dirty jokes, awaiting their turn. Most paid for a topless massage, negotiated for whatever extras the masseuse was willing to perform, and departed with a hint of satisfaction. It wasn't much, yet it was contact, regardless of the tawdry environs. Jans proved so popular that on weekends the line of customers spilled out of the lobby and into the street.

Al Mackey was one of the hungry faces that visited the massage parlor. Perhaps he went because it was easier than hustling divorcees at the Ramada Inn. Maybe he appreciated the simplicity of the arrangement— $50 bought thirty-five minutes of attention. There were no commitments, no attachments, no apologies. On a sagging bed in a tiny room, in the dim glow of a blue light, and under a ceiling crisscrossed by water pipes and heating ducts, a nude woman washed you with soapy water, then plied your cock until you climaxed onto a towel. Somehow it was seedy and antiseptic at the same time. But, like many others, Al Mackey returned. It was on one of these visits that he met Barbara.

Barbara Hoffman was different. She was extraordinary. Her fragrance was sandalwood, not sweetshop. Her demeanor effected a pose of shy sensuality. Behind the broad-rimmed glasses were eyes flecked with mystery, imagination, innocence. It was a devastating combination, and Al Mackey was not the only man who succumbed.

Often a customer had to wait an hour or more for a session with her. Even on slow nights, when there might be two women idle, men lingered in the lobby, drinking cheap booze or instant coffee, waiting for their thirty-five minutes with Barbara.

"Queen of the massage parlors" someone had dubbed her. The moniker stuck. Jans, the Rising Sun, Cheri's—in this naughty little world Barbara was royalty.

As she did with a few of her select customers, Barbara invited Al Mackey to see her outside of the depressing environment of the parlor. Like the others, Mackey probably felt flattered. And if Mackey was like the other men, not all their time together centered on sex. Barbara became a companion. Whether sailing on Lake Mendota, or attending a play at the University Theater, she was equally at ease. She could discuss mythology, classical music, or the sexual practices of primitive cultures. Barbara possessed more than a supple, experienced body. She had a facile, intelligent mind. And when she felt herself in a position of power, she rarely relinquished control.

Like coal from Santa Claus, Barbara had been delivered trouble on Christmas, and when she called from Park Ridge, Al Mackey chivalrously volunteered his services. If she needed legal advice and representation, he would provide it.

What was the difficulty? he inquired. As calmly as if it had been a motor vehicle violation, Barbara told him she expected to be charged with manslaughter or possibly second-degree murder.

They scheduled a meeting at her apartment for the next day.

Al Mackey walked to the bay window of his apartment, pushed aside the drapes, stared at Lake Monona. The vast surface was frozen and dusted with snow. Its edges were crusted with chunks of ice and blocks of shadow. The middle was gray and clear, illuminated by the moon, and he saw the squat shapes of ice fishermen with their bulging snowmobile suits and orange-flag fishing

lines. He pondered their amazing endurance. If what Barbara had said was true, it was just such endurance that both he and she would need for the long days ahead.

While Hoffman and Mackey talked on the phone Christmas night, a second search warrant was issued for apartment 306. A couple of throw rugs and hand towels were confiscated from the bathroom. These would be forwarded to the state crime lab and tested for blood and hair samples. A more intriguing find was a manila envelope hidden in the closet. It contained a collection of personal effects belonging to a woman named Linda Millar.

Among the items were a receipt and a key for a post office box at the central postal station in Madison. There were also banking records and a passbook assigned to a Linda Millar, with a savings account totaling $22.80, along with a Madison Public Library card for the same woman. An envelope mailed to Linda Millar at Barbara Hoffman's address was also discovered. The envelope was empty.

Though the authorities were unaware of a Linda Millar, and what her connection to Barbara Hoffman might be, the materials were taken on the odd chance they might have a role in Harry Berge's homicide. The truth was, the investigators found so little of evidential value in the apartment that they grabbed at whatever seemed odd or unusual. It would give them something to chase, however thin.

12

It was December 26th. The mercury rose to fourteen degrees above zero. School kids on Christmas holiday tumbled over the outdoor skating rinks. Boys in turtle-necks and sweatshirts swatted hockey sticks at skidding pucks. The suns rays streamed as golden as Land O'Lakes butter. Water pipes and gas lines thawed. The bitterness had departed and left only cold.

In his office District Attorney James Doyle, Jr., tugged the blinds and welcomed the sunshine. The rays cast an optimism that Doyle hoped would infect his mood.

Last night he had been briefed by Chris Spencer about the body in the snowbank, its identification, the arrest of Jerry Davies, and Chuck Lullings risk and blunder in Park Ridge. When he arrived at work this morning, he was besieged by reporters on the granite steps of the City-County Building. A murder of ordinary proportion was front-page news in Wisconsin; a naked man buried in a snowbank, his genitals battered to a swollen pulp, was sensational. Lurid rumors swirled. There was conjecture that a suspect was in custody. The DA had waded through the crowd with an apologetic "no comment."

Jim Doyle was affable, ambitious, and he brewed his own coffee. That morning he prepared a pot of Java extra-strong.

At thirty years of age Doyle was the youngest person elected to the DA's office in Dane County history. He was a hometown boy who had attended Stanford and the University of Wisconsin. He had married Jessica Laird—niece of Richard Nixon's secretary of defense, Melvin Laird— and for a honeymoon the couple had joined the Peace Corps. The couple were stationed at a rural village in Tunisia. An avid basketball player, Doyle took a ball with him to Africa. He fastened a hoop to a date palm tree and taught whomever he could interest how to dribble, float a jump shot, and run a pick and roll. After the Peace Corps Doyle was accepted at Harvard Law. Armed with a law degree and a strong sense of social commitment, the Doyles moved to Chinle, Arizona, and worked with local Indian groups on the Navajo reservation. Madison, with its liberal atmosphere and livable urban environs, beckoned, and they returned. Doyle played city-league basketball, became active in Democratic party politics, and soon won election as district attorney.

Some folks will be suspicious of any Irishman who prefers a hard game of basketball to a stiff shot of Jame-

sons whiskey, but even Doyle's harshest critics admitted that as a lawyer he played tough, honest, straight. He didn't renege on promises. If crossed, he could be rough, maybe vindictive, but never unfair. He considered himself more a populist than a liberal, in the tradition of "Fighting Bob" La Follette, Wisconsin's great progressive governor. Social concerns and discrimination cases were major targets of his administration. He vigorously enforced the city's affirmative action and equal opportunity statutes. Doyle harbored a quick wit and a keen intelligence. He was thorough, and sometimes his extreme competence assumed an edge of righteousness. He regarded the law with a profound respect and became indignant with lawyers whose ethics met less than the highest standard. Cheating had no place anywhere. Those who didn't play according to the rules were regarded with contempt. Deception belonged on the hardwood courts, not in a court of law.

An abbreviated transcription of Lulling's interview with Davies was forwarded to Doyle. The DA spoke with Hanrahan, who had conducted the search of Hoffman's apartment. At 10:00 a.m. he met Jerry Davies.

Doyle served coffee. Davies glanced about the room and noticed the walls decorated with an Indian rug, tribal masks from Africa, an autographed team photo of the 1971 New York Knicks. His immediate impression of the DA was favorable. He had expected an older man, someone gruff and patronizing. He realized he had mistaken Doyle for Doyle's father, a prominent lawyer and politician, who was now a federal court judge. In fact, Jim Doyle, Jr., and Jerry Davies were almost the same age, which bridged Daviess anxiety. More important was Doyle's relaxed manner. The smile was not forced. The words were not rehearsed.

They rehashed Daviess participation in the disposal of the body and delved into the depths of Daviess commitment to Barbara Hoffman. Davies confessed to Doyle that he and Barbara were engaged and that the wedding,

scheduled for last spring, had been postponed.

His insecurities and doubts about the relationship were mentioned and then dismissed as Davies reiterated his love for Barbara and his implicit trust in her word. If she said there were no other men in her life, he believed her. If she said she had had nothing to do with the death of the man they buried in the snowbank, she was innocent.

How a dead body got into her bathroom was a mystery as unfathomable as the act of creation, and Davies wasted no energy contemplating it. What caused consternation was anticipating and recovering from her anger when she learned he had gone to the cops.

Would she end their engagement? he asked Doyle. The thought tossed Davies into a muddle. Desperation and loneliness oozed from his skin. That fleeting glimpse of the body as they had lugged it from the car to the snowbank had immersed Davies in a circumstance beyond his comprehension. The path in and the path out pivoted on Barbara Hoffman.

Their talk slowed. Doyle said that they would confer again soon. Davies stirred the granules of sugar substitute at the bottom of his coffee cup and nodded sullenly.

Doyle knotted his hands behind his head, revealing the black elbow patches on his herringbone jacket. He recited a Hopi Indian fable about simplicity and chaos, about the turbulence of a thunderstorm and the wonders that appear in its aftermath. Then Davies was taken downstairs to police headquarters and subjected to a polygraph test.

Doyle shuddered. According to the reports yesterdays search warrant had produced scant evidence to connect Barbara Hoffman to Harry Berge or his death, which meant Jerry Davies could well be the key witness to what had occurred on December 23rd, something that included Barbara Hoffman and Harry Berge and Davies and a homicide. Once Ms. Hoffman played with his mind, Davies would be unpredictable, and there was nothing Doyle

could do to intervene. Thus it was essential to get as much from Davies on record as possible before he could recant, before his fragile memory could be tampered with and distorted.

13

If Harry Berge had ever visited Barbara Hoffman's apartment, the state crime lab technicians found no indication of it. The crew swabbed, scrubbed, dusted, vacuumed, and x-rayed. They scrutinized with the naked eye, examined with microscopes, irradiated the premises with ultraviolet light. Not a shred of Berges physical presence was discovered.

And what about clothing? If Harry Berge had entered the apartment, presumably he wore more than a sari of white linen. The garbage Dumpster, which had not been emptied since the 21st, was checked, as was every other trash can and sand drum in the vicinity. The basement and furnace were checked. What Harry Berge wore his last night on earth, besides the bedsheet, would have to be conjecture.

The dearth of material evidence surprised the crime lab people and troubled the investigative team. No hair, no blood, no fingerprints, and no clothing threads implied that Barbara Hoffman had performed a meticulous and thorough cleaning job. To a jury it would imply serious doubt.

Especially no blood. Anyone whacked in the cranium a half dozen times with a blunt object—and with enough force to crinkle the forehead until it resembled a relief map of the Kickapoo River valley—bleeds and bleeds profusely. Pints of the stuff should have leaked out of the gashes and onto the linoleum of the kitchen floor, or the tiles of the bathroom, or the tongue-in-groove pine in the living room.

The crime lab experts blocked out the sunlight and dusted these areas with a special dye that would glow on contact with a foreign substance under a beam of ultraviolet light. Utilizing this technique, a smidgen of something was sighted in a crack in the bathrooms terrazzo tiles. Delicately, and with the nimble skill of a craftsman, Corrine Weiss attempted to resurrect the specimen. She was a veteran of numerous homicide investigations during her years of state work and was aware of the samples potential importance. The stainless-steel picks she used might have been purloined from a dentists office. Her diligent efforts recovered the minute specimen, which she transported to her lab and later identified as blood, not nail polish or iodine or a splat of toothpaste. However, the tiny flakes were too small a sample to survive the battery of tests required for a classification of type.

All that could be deduced with scientific certainty was that the specimen was blood, which was not an uncommon element to find on a bathroom floor. It could have dripped from Barbara when she shaved her legs. It could have been the last flake from what must have been the paint job Harry Berges lacerated head did on the tiles. It could have belonged to anyone who had been in the apartment in the last several months.