The Wig
by Jeffrey Greene
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
A more thorough search revealed an auburn wig, woven out of human hair, stuffed into the lining of a scavenged electric blanket. The Taylor Creek police department was immediately notified and, without waiting for sunrise, Detective Behrens and his partner drove the sixty miles south to the Sumter County Jail, and with the permission of local detectives, questioned Mr. Weems at some length.
Asa Bradford Weems was an unusually hirsute Caucasian male with straight, shaggy brown hair, heavy eyebrows and muddy brown eyes with circles under them, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well for some time. He was about five feet ten, two hundred and twenty pounds, grimy, unshaven and giving off a strong body odor as well as halitosis. He was wearing a yellow t-shirt that had once been white, tucked into threadbare slacks.
He was genial and talkative with the officers, if apparently delusional, digressing, between direct questions on his involvement in a kidnapping and possible murder, on his uncanny attractiveness to young women, some of them famous pop stars, who seemed to find his “animal magnetism” irresistible. He had a disarming way of staring into his interlocutor’s eyes with limpid sincerity and shaking his head in wonderment at his own success with the ladies, as if he were just as mystified as you were why any woman would find him anything other than disgusting or frightening.
Behrens had been given a detailed description of Yvette Bliss’s wig from Mrs. Tunney and her housekeeper, and thought there was a strong possibility that the wig in Mr. Weems’s possession was the same one. He also knew that if Mrs. Tunney couldn’t positively identify it as belonging to her daughter, they would be forced to release their only suspect, since there was no body, no eyewitnesses, nothing at all to connect him to Miss Bliss’s disappearance.
When asked how he’d come by the wig, Weems replied that he’d found it in a dumpster. “You wouldn’t believe what people throw away,” he told Behrens, but seemed unsure which town the dumpster was in, maybe Ocala or Belleview, he thought, since he hit so many dumpsters on his travels.
Asked what a man would want with a woman’s wig, Weems claimed that his interest in it was strictly monetary. A genuine human-hair wig, even one as old as this, he told the detectives, could sell for thirty or forty dollars at a flea market. He had ready answers for all the questions put to him, even after Behrens’s junior partner reminded him that he’d been seen wearing the wig by two campers on the Suwannee River, and to get under his skin, deliberately insinuated that Weems was a transvestite.
Wrong again, he’d replied with a yellow-fanged grin. In fact he had worn the wig for warmth, asking them both to remember that it was in the twenties that night on the river and he had no hat, “and when a man is freezing to death, he’ll put on anything to keep warm, even a clown suit or a dress.” The only time he seemed the least bit rattled was when Behrens told him that he would be taking the wig with him back to Taylor Creek later that day and showing it to the missing woman’s mother — yes, she was very much alive, he assured Weems, and sharp as a tack — and he had no doubt she would identify it as belonging to her daughter. When that happened, he would be formally charged with kidnapping. A murder charge could soon follow.
Weems slid back in his chair, shaking his head. “Nothing ever changes with you people, does it? If you can’t solve a case, it’s time to play Pin the Crime on the Poor Man.”
“Not just any poor man,” Behrens said. “The guy in possession of the missing woman’s wig.”
“You don’t know whose wig it is,” Weems said, picking at a dried spot of crud on the formica table, his jaw muscles flexing.
“But in a few hours, we will,” Behrens replied. “You must be kicking yourself for not burning that wig back in June. We didn’t know you from the Man in the Moon, Weems, but the second you were seen wearing it, you pinned the crime on yourself. Suddenly this case is a fast train going nonstop to Death Row, and you’re on it, man. I suggest you start talking to us on the hows and whys of what happened to Miss Yvette Bliss. It could weigh in your favor down the road.”
After appearing to consider Behrens’s words, Weems shook his head. “You’re just chumming the water, hoping to get lucky. But the fish aren’t biting today.”
“Suit yourself,” Behrens replied. “But here’s what I think happened: you were driving around Taylor Creek last June, a drifter on wheels looking for a score. The junk business was in a slump, and you were down to nickels and dimes. Then you saw Yvette Bliss. At some point you noticed the wig and, for whatever reason, financial or something a whole lot more personal, you wanted it. You wanted it very badly. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was just her purse you were after, and the wig was an afterthought. She was old, alone, mentally ill and predictable in her habits. You probably watched her for a day or two, just to figure the best spot on her route to do a quick snatch and grab and, on June 7th, after making sure there were no witnesses, you made your move.”
“My ‘move’? I wasn’t even in the state last June, much less your town.”
“So you’ve said. Anyway, my guess is, she fought back, a lot harder than you expected for a lady her age and size. That wig was part of who she was, and she wasn’t giving it up without a fight. Maybe she scratched or bit you, made you mad. You hit her, or pushed her, and she fell, maybe hit her head on the sidewalk. She was out cold, or dying, or already dead. Whatever happened, you panicked. If you left her there, somebody might see you driving away. So you made a snap decision to bundle her into the back of your van and drive off. But now you had a body in the car. What do you do? Get rid of it, sure, but where? You don’t even own a shovel.
“Then you remembered Lake Helen. You’d been there before, probably seen the big gator that lived on the swampier side of the lake, where the footing is bad and almost nobody ever goes. Why not leave the body floating on the lake, or near the water? If the gator eats it, problem solved. And if it doesn’t, you’ll be long gone before anybody finds her.”
“So now I framed an alligator for murder,” Weems said. “Doesn’t that sound silly, Detective, even to you? Come on, you’ve seen my record, what little there is. I’ve never even been charged with a felony. No history of violence on my sheet, not even a fistfight.”
“First time for everything, isn’t there? I’m not saying you meant to kill her, but she still ended up dead, which will come down to two choices for you: life in prison or the death penalty. If she just fell and hit her head while you were trying to steal her purse, and you admit that with a show of remorse, it might tip the jury’s sympathy toward recommending life. Something to consider, Mr. Weems, while you’re sitting in jail waiting to hear what the missing woman’s mother has to say about that wig you just couldn’t bear to part with.”
Weems looked up at him, and for the first time Behrens saw fear in his eyes. “I’ll say it once more, Detective, and then I want a lawyer: I found the wig in a dumpster.”
When Behrens arrived at the old house on Milliken Court, he’d already called ahead and spoken to Mrs. Freeman, the housekeeper, who promised to prepare Mrs. Tunney as best she could for his visit. He carried the wig sealed in a plastic evidence bag inside a paper grocery bag. After being greeted at the door by Mrs. Freeman, a tall, quiet woman in her late sixties, he was led into the living room where Mrs. Tunney, wearing a heavy sweater buttoned to the chin and with a shawl around her shoulders, sat in her wheel chair, staring down at her withered hands in her lap. He waited for her to become aware of his presence, then came forward, lightly grasped the tiny hand she offered, and at her invitation sat in the chair next to her.
“I’m told you have news for me, Lieutenant,” she said in her hushed, breathless rasp, squinting intently at him. She wore hearing aids in both ears and spoke slowly, with great effort, as if each word were costly, another hoarded ingot of her vanishing fortune, but also with a precision and respect for the English language that made him grammatically self-conscious in her presence.
Her tarnished pewter eyes were clouded by cataracts, her white hair sparsely framing a parchment-fleshed mask of symmetrical bone so long excised of vanity and allure as to be serenely untroubled by even the memory of what Behrens could perceive had once been striking beauty. Her body was so consumed by its years that her clothes seemed scarcely occupied, but her head was still imposing and her gaze, however poor her vision, had force and purpose. That she was both a grieving mother and the oldest person he’d ever spoken to left him with the slightly awed impression that time had alchemized her flesh and spirit into something capable of bearing realities before which he, for all his experience, might falter and retreat.
“Yes, ma’m, we have a suspect in custody in Sumter County on suspicion of kidnapping, who was in possession of a wig that, judging from your description, might be your daughter’s. May I show it to you?”
She nodded, and he took the evidence bag out of the paper sack.
“Would it be possible to take it out of the bag?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’m, if you wouldn’t mind wearing gloves when you handle it.”
Mrs. Freeman left the room and returned with a pair of white velvet dress gloves and helped Mrs. Tunney put them on. Behrens, who had donned latex gloves, handed the wig to her. It was voluminous and complexly styled, appearing to have been made from more than one head of human hair, and handling it disturbed a strong must of old age. Mrs. Tunney held it almost reverently, turning it to look at the inside, then leaned over and took a whiff.
“Mrs. Freeman,” she said. “I would appreciate your opinion on this.”
Mrs. Freeman leaned down, looked it over and also smelled it, but kept her hands away from it. She stood up and nodded at Mrs. Tunney.
“We two,” the lady said, “saw Yvette more often and at closer quarters than anyone else. She agrees with me. This is the auburn wig I bought for my daughter in 1959. She wore it everywhere except to bed.”
“You’re positive? Not the slightest doubt?”
“None.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Tunney. You’ve been extremely helpful.”
“May I ask the man’s name?”
“I’m obliged to withhold his name until he’s been formally charged. He’s a drifter. Picks through trash, tries to sell what he finds. He claims to have found the wig in a dumpster in the Ocala area. We don’t believe him, of course, but it’s possible that a jury might. There would be reasonable doubt, you see, and a good lawyer... Not that he could afford one.”
“So there’s no certainty of a conviction?”
“I’m afraid not. In the absence of, forgive me, a—”
“You can say it, Lieutenant. I know she’s not coming back.”
“Well, without a body, we can’t legally assume her death, though we could get lucky if identifiable blood or hair turns up in his van. The forensic people haven’t found any traces yet, but if and when they do, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you.”
“One last question: did Yvette carry any money in her purse?”
Mrs. Tunney’s mouth twitched in a brief smile. “Yes. The same few coins for more than twenty years, amounting to forty or fifty cents, never spent or added to, since nothing she wanted could be bought with money. The clutch purse and its meager contents was a prop, Lieutenant, like the wig, her suit dress, high heels and pillbox hat. A costume to help hold herself in a particular time and place, a kind of waking dream of the life denied her. Mrs. Freeman and I know how hard Yvette struggled to maintain even that fragile truce with her illness. No one else does, or could, understand. I admired her; did you know that?”
“No, ma’m, I didn’t. But I’m glad you told me. I wasn’t going to tell you this until later, if at all, but maybe now is the time. We would have had nothing to link our suspect to your daughter’s disappearance, no eyewitnesses, no evidence, if he hadn’t kept her wig. He was actually seen wearing it by two men camping on the Suwannee River a few weeks ago. That’s how we caught him. He isn’t a stupid man, and he was lucky. He could have remained unknown to us, but for his own reasons he kept a damning piece of evidence as a souvenir, as if he couldn’t help himself. And when he chose to wear the wig that night by the river, he gave himself away.”
She was silent for a long moment, staring blindly into the fading light behind the trees shrouding the yard. “You might pity an old woman for saying this, Lieutenant, but I’m tempted to believe that Yvette found a way to name her murderer.”
“That hadn’t occurred to me,” he said, after a silence of his own.
“But even if there is a just resolution someday,” she said, her voice seeming to wane in strength with the afternoon light. “It will almost certainly be after my death. Still, I’m grateful to you, Lieutenant. You’ve been kind.” She extended a still-gloved hand, and he took it. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired.”
“Of course. Goodbye, Mrs. Tunney, Mrs. Freeman.”
He watched them join the deepening shadows of the old house, then, feeling a chill, he turned and walked out, carrying in his grocery bag what he knew perfectly well was flimsy evidence at best, easily cast into doubt by even a semi-competent lawyer, and yet was all he had, probably all he would ever have. Unless they found forensic evidence in the van tying Weems to the crime, or he could be spooked into confessing, which he strongly doubted, there was very little chance of an indictment.
He knew that, in a sense, he’d lied to her even in his cautious doubts and disclaimers, by trying to convey a hopefulness he didn’t feel, but she had made it clear to him that she had no more use for well-intentioned lies, or indeed, lies of any kind. Under the steady gaze of her imminent death, she was, after a hundred years, as free from illusions as most of us are allowed to be. As Behrens passed under the great-armed live oak shading the house and most of the front yard, it occurred to him that this massive tree probably wasn’t much older, or stronger, than Miss Yvette’s mother.
Copyright © 2023 by Jeffrey Greene
