Beyond This Point Are Monsters

Chapter Three

Judge Gallagher tugged impatiently at the collar of his black judicial robe. Even after fifteen years on the bench he still dreaded this moment when he walked into the courtroom and people stared up at him as if they expected the robe to endow him with magic qualities like Batman’s cape. Occasionally, when he caught a particularly anxious eye, he wanted to take time out to explain that the robe was merely a piece of cloth covering a business suit, a drip-dry shirt and an ordinary man who couldn’t perform miracles no matter how badly they were needed.

Gallagher looked around the room, noting with surprise that the only empty seats were those in the jury box. To his knowledge there’d been no publicity about the hearing except the legal notices in the newspapers. Perhaps the legal notices had a larger public than he imagined. More likely, though, some of the people were drop-ins who had no real interest in the case: the lady shopper resting her feet between sales; the young marine who seemed to be suffering from a hangover; a small group of high school students with notebooks and clipboards; a teen-aged girl, thin as a reed, carrying a sleeping baby and wearing a blond wig and sunglasses as big as saucers.

Some of the spectators were courtroom regulars who came for the excitement and because they had nowhere else to go. A middle-aged German woman knitted with speed and equanimity through embezzlement trials, divorces, armed robberies and rapes. A pair of elderly pensioners, one man on crutches, the other carrying a white cane, appeared even in the worst weather to sit through the dullest cases. They carried sandwiches in their pockets and at noon they would eat outside on the steps, feeding the crusts to the pigeons. To Gallagher, looking down on them from the windows of his chambers, it seemed a very good way to spend the noon hour.

Even without years of practice it would have been easy for Gallagher to pick out the people closely connected with the case: Osborne’s wife and mother pretending to be cool in the heat of the morning; some leather-faced ranchers looking out of place and uneasy in their city clothes; the ex-policeman, Valenzuela, almost unrecognizable in a natty striped suit and orange tie; and sitting at the counsels’ table, Mrs. Osborne’s lawyer, Ford, a soft-spoken, gentle-mannered man with a ferocious temper that had cost him hundreds of dollars in contempt fines.

“Are you ready, Mr. Ford?”

“Yes, your Honor.”

“Then go ahead.”

“This is a proceeding to establish the death of Robert Kirkpatrick Osborne. In support of the allegations contained in the petition of Devon Suellen Osborne, I intend to submit a considerable amount of evidence. I beg the indulgence of the court in the manner of submitting this evidence.

“Your Honor, the body of Robert Osborne has not been found. Under California law, death is a rebuttable presumption after an absence of seven years. The presumption of death before this seven-year period has passed requires circumstantial evidence to show first, the fact of death, i.e., there must be enough evidence from which a reasonable conclusion can be reached that death has occurred; and second, that absence from any cause other than death is inconsistent with the nature of the person absent.

“The following quote is from the People versus L. Ewing Scott: Any evidence, facts or circumstances concerning the alleged deceased, relating to the character, long absence without communicating with friends or relatives, habits, condition, affections, attachments, prosperity and objects in life which usually control the conduct of a person and are the motive of such person’s actions, and the absence of any evidence to show the motive or cause for the abandonment of home, family or friends or wealth by the alleged deceased, are competent evidence from which may be inferred the death of one absent or unheard from, whatever has been the duration or shortness of such absence. Unquote.

“We intend to show, your Honor, that Robert Osborne was a young man of twenty-four, mentally and physically well-endowed, happily married and the owner of a prospering ranch; that his relationship with his family, friends and neighbors was pleasant, that he was enjoying life and looking forward to the future.

“If we could follow any man around on any particular day of his life, we would find out a great deal about him, his character, the state of his health, his mind, his finances, his interests, hobbies, plans, ambitions. I can think of no better way of presenting a true picture of Robert Osborne than to reconstruct, as completely as I am able, his final day. Bear with me, your Honor, if I elicit from witnesses details that are seemingly irrelevant, and opinions, suppositions and conclusions that would not be admissible evidence in an adversary proceeding.

“The final day was October thirteen, 1967. It started on the Yerba Buena ranch, where Robert Osborne was born and where he lived most of his life. The weather was very warm, as it had been since early spring, and the river was dry. A late crop of tomatoes was being harvested and crated for shipping, and the picking of dates was scheduled to begin. The ranch was a busy place and Robert Osborne a busy young man.

“On October thirteen he awoke before dawn as usual and began his preparations for the day. While he was in the shower his wife, Devon, also awoke but she didn’t get up. She was in the early stage of a difficult pregnancy and under doctor’s orders to stay as quiet as possible... I would like to call as my first witness Devon Suellen Osborne.”

The courtroom stirred, rustled, whispered, shifted its weight. Then everything was suddenly quiet again as Devon walked toward the stand. “Do you swear...?” She swore, her raised right hand steady, her voice flat. Ford could scarcely remember the wild weeping girl of a year ago.

“Would you state your name for the record, please?”

“Devon Suellen Osborne.”

“And where do you live?”

“Rancho Yerba Buena, Rural Route number two.”

“Displayed on the easel is a map. Have you seen it before?”

“Yes, in your office.”

“And you had a chance to study it?”

“Yes.”

“Is it a true representation of a portion of the property known as Rancho Yerba Buena?”

“To my knowledge it is.”

“Do you own any portion of Rancho Yerba Buena, Mrs. Osborne?”

“No. The deed has been in my husband’s name since he was twenty-one.”

“During the early part of Mr. Osborne’s absence, how was the ranch business carried on?”

“It wasn’t. Bills piled up, checks came in which couldn’t be cashed, purchases were at a standstill. That’s when I went to you for help.”

Ford turned to Judge Gallagher. “Your Honor, I advised Mrs. Osborne to wait until ninety days had elapsed from the time her husband had last been seen and then appeal to the court to appoint her as trustee of the missing man’s estate. The appointment was granted, Mrs. Osborne was bonded, as required, and through my office made periodic accountings to the court of receipts and disbursements and the like.”

“And that is your present position, Mrs. Osborne,” Gallagher said, “trustee of the estate?”

“Yes, your Honor.”

“Continue, Mr. Ford.”

Ford went over to the map and pointed to the small rectangle bearing the letter O. “Is this the ranch house, Mrs. Osborne?”

“Yes.”

“And it was here that you saw your husband before sunrise on October thirteen last year?”

“Yes.”

“Did any conversation take place at that time?”

“Nothing important.”

“In the reconstruction of a man’s final day it is difficult to say what’s important and what isn’t. Tell us the things you remember, Mrs. Osborne.”

“It was still dark. I woke up when Robert came out of the shower and turned on the bureau lamp. He asked me how I felt and I said fine. While he was getting dressed we talked about various matters.”

“Was there anything unusual about the way he dressed that morning?”

“He put on slacks and a sports jacket instead of his working clothes because he was driving into the city.”

“This city, San Diego?”

“Yes.”

“Would you describe the slacks and jacket, Mrs. Osborne?”

“The slacks were lightweight gray gabardine and the jacket was gray and black dacron in a small plaid pattern.”

“Why was he driving into San Diego?”

“A number of reasons. In the morning he had a dental appointment, and after that he was going to drop in and see his mother and then pick up a tennis racket he’d ordered, one of the new kind made of steel. I reminded him too that it was Dulzura’s birthday — she is our cook — and that he should buy her a present.”

“Did he, in fact, do all of these things?”

“Except the present, he forgot that.”

“Wasn’t there a luncheon meeting at noon which he was expected to attend?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what the meeting was about?”

“It concerned problems of migrant labor in California agriculture.”

“Did he go to the meeting?”

“Yes. Robert had the idea that the problem must be solved at the source, the crops themselves. If crops could be regulated chemically, such as by hormones, perhaps harvesting could become a twelve-month-a-year business which would give steady employment to agricultural workers and do away entirely with migrant labor.”

“Now, Mrs. Osborne, that morning after your husband finished dressing, what did he do?”

“He kissed me goodbye and told me he’d be home for dinner about seven-thirty. He also asked me to keep a sharp lookout for his spaniel, Maxie, who’d taken off the night before. I thought Maxie had caught the scent of a bitch in heat and gone to find her, but Robert suspected something more sinister might be involved.”

“Such as?”

“He didn’t say. But Maxie was never allowed near the bunkhouse or the mess hall, and at night he was kept inside the house.”

“Was this for the dog’s protection or yours?”

“Both. At certain times of the year there were quite a few strangers around the ranch. Maxie was our watchdog and we were — well, I guess you could call us his watchpeople.”

At the unusual word a little hum of laughter vibrated through the courtroom and bounced gently off the walls.

“The dog, then,” Ford continued, “was not friendly toward any of the workers on the ranch?”

“No.”

“In the event of an attack on your husband, do you think the dog would have gone to his defense?”

“I know he would.”

Ford sat down at the counsels’ table and spread his hands in front of him, palms up, as if he intended to read in their lines the past as well as the future. “When and where were you and Robert Osborne married?”

“April twenty-fourth, 1967, in Manhattan.”

“How old was Mr. Osborne at that time?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Had you known him long?”

“Two weeks.”

“Since you were willing to marry him after so brief an acquaintance, I must assume he made a considerable impression on you.”

“Yes.”

A considerable impression.

They had met at a Saturday afternoon concert at the Philharmonic. Devon arrived during the opening number and slipped quietly and apologetically into her seat. As her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness she became aware that the seat on her left was occupied by a large young man with fair hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Every minute or two he turned to stare at her and at intermission he followed her into the lobby. She wasn’t used to such uninvited attention and it made her a little uneasy and more than a little curious. The young man gave the impression of having walked into the concert hall either by mistake or because someone had given him a ticket and he didn’t want to waste it.

She was the first to speak. “Why are you staring at me?”

“Was I staring?”

“You still are.”

“Sorry.” His smile was shy, almost melancholy. “I guess I can’t help it. You remind me of someone back home.”

“Someone nice, I hope.”

“She used to be.”

“Isn’t she nice any more?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She’s dead.” After a moment’s hesitation he added, “A lot of people think I killed her. I didn’t, but when people want to believe something, it’s hard to stop them.”

Now it was Devon who stared, and a pulse began to beat rapidly in the back of her head like a warning signal. “You shouldn’t go around saying things like that to strangers.”

“I never did before. I wish you’d—”

But she had already started to walk away.

“Please wait,” he said. “Did I frighten you? I’m sorry. It was a dumb thing to do. It’s just that I haven’t talked to anyone since I came to town and you looked nice and gentle like Ruth.”

Her name was Ruth, Devon thought. She looked nice and gentle and a lot of people think this young man killed her and maybe he did.

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said. “Wait just a minute, will you?”

She turned to face him. “Appearances are deceiving. I’m not very nice and not at all gentle, so you’d better forget whatever you had in mind.”

“But—”

“And I suggest that for the balance of the concert you go and sit somewhere else.”

“All right.”

For the next hour the seat beside her remained empty. She wanted to look around to see if he was sitting any-where nearby but she forced herself to keep her eyes on the stage and to concentrate on the music, applauding when other people applauded.

After the concert he was waiting for her in the lobby. “Miss? Would you let me talk to you for a minute? I’ve been thinking over what a stupid thing I did. It’s no wonder you were scared.”

“I wasn’t scared. I was annoyed.”

“I’m sorry. My only excuse is that I felt I should be honest with you right from the start.”

“There hasn’t been a start,” she said. “Nothing has started. Now if you’ll—”

“My name is Robert Osborne, Robert Kirkpatrick Osborne. What’s yours?”

“Devon Suellen Smith.”

“I like that. It’s pretty.”

While she explained that her parents wanted something different to make up for the “Smith,” she became aware that she’d been wrong and the young man right: there was a start.

It continued through coffee and éclairs at Schrafft’s, and the next morning they met for a walk in Central Park. It was the first warm Sunday of the year. There must have been people everywhere in the park, but the only one Devon could remember seeing was Robert as he strode across the grass toward her, his pockets bulging with peanuts he’d bought to feed the squirrels. He told her about his ranch in California, which was really a farm, and about the squirrels on it that lived in holes in the ground instead of trees. He talked about Maxie, the spaniel; about his father, who had died years ago in a fall off a tractor; about the land, which was irrigated desert, and the crazy river that was either flooding or bone-dry. By the end of the day Devon knew that her life had changed abruptly and would never be the same again.

“...please respond to the question, Mrs. Osborne?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear it.”

“Was your husband a big man?”

“Six feet one and about a hundred and seventy pounds.”

“He was in good health?”

“Yes.”

“Active and strong?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have any physical disabilities? For instance, did he wear glasses?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“To correct his short-sightedness — I think myopia is the right word.”

“Did he have more than one pair?”

“Yes. Besides his ordinary horn-rimmed glasses he had prescription sunglasses which he used especially while driving. During the early part of the summer he’d been fitted with contact lenses, and he wore them for tennis and swimming and other times when his ordinary glasses would have been a nuisance.”

“These contact lenses were prescribed and fitted by an ophthalmologist?”

“Yes.”

“Do you happen to recall his name?”

“Dr. Jarrett.”

“Where is his office?”

“Here in San Diego.”

Ford consulted some notes on the table in front of him. “Now, Mrs. Osborne, you stated that one of your husband’s reasons for driving to the city was to pick up a new tennis racket he’d ordered. Did he actually try the racket out during the afternoon?”

“Yes. He played several sets on one of the courts in Balboa Park.”

“Did he wear his contact lenses?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain of this?”

“I’m certain that he was wearing them when he got home.”

“Did he continue to wear them through dinner?”

“Yes.”

“And after dinner when he went out looking for the dog, Maxie, was he still wearing the contact lenses?”

“Yes.”

“Who has these lenses at the present time, Mrs. Osborne?”

“The police.”

“What about his prescription sunglasses — where are they now?”

“In the glove compartment of his car.”

“Where he left them?”

“Yes.”

“What about his ordinary horn-rimmed glasses? Where are they now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You mean they were lost or misplaced?”

“Neither.”

“When was the last time you saw them, Mrs. Osborne?”

“Three weeks ago. If you want the exact time it was the day you phoned to tell me this hearing had been scheduled. My husband’s glasses were among other things of his which I packed in cartons. I intended to store the cartons in the attic. Then I realized that this would be merely postponing the inevitable, so I decided to give the stuff to the Salvation Army in the hope that some use could be made of it. I know Robert would have approved.”

“Did you deliver it to the Salvation Army yourself?”

“No. Mrs. Osborne, Robert’s mother, offered to do it.”

“When you were packing those cartons, were you pretty sure what the outcome of today’s hearing would be?”

“I was sure my husband was dead. I’d been sure for a long time.”

“Why?”

“Nothing would keep Robert from getting in touch with me if he were alive.”

“You were happily married?”

“Yes.”

“And expecting a child?”

“Yes.”

“Did you carry the child to term, Mrs. Osborne?”

“No.”

She remembered the trip to the hospital in the back of Estivar’s station wagon, with Dulzura beside her, strangely silent and dignified, and a police car clearing the way, its siren screaming. It took a long time to come home from the hospital. Autumn was nearly over, the migrants were gone, the crops harvested.

The return trip was quieter. There was no police escort. She rode in a taxicab instead of the station wagon, with Agnes Osborne beside her instead of Dulzura. Mrs. Osborne talked to her in a flat, low-pitched voice which gave no indication that the loss of the child was a more severe blow to her than it was to Devon. For Devon there would be other chances, for Mrs. Osborne it was the end of the line. She told Devon what to do, sounding as though she were reading off a list she’d written down in a corner of her mind: get lots of sleep and fresh air, avoid worry, be brave, exercise, replace Dulzura with a more responsible person, take up a hobby, eat plenty of protein...

“...attention to me, Devon?”

“Yes.”

“We’d probably be wise to ignore Christmas this year, it’s such an emotional occasion anyway. Perhaps you’d enjoy going off on a little holiday by yourself. Don’t you have an aunt in Buffalo?”

“Please stop bothering about me.”

“I hate the thought of you staying alone at the ranch. It’s not safe. Dulzura is unreliable, you should be aware of that by now.”

“I know she drinks a little bit now and then.”

“She drinks a whole lot and whenever she can get her hands on the stuff. As for Estivar, how can we really tell whose side he’d be on in an emergency? He’s learned English and the ranching business and a few manners in the last twenty-five years, but he’s just as Mexican now as when he crossed the border— What happened to your aunt in Buffalo?”

“She died.”

“Everyone’s dying. Oh God, I can’t stand it. Everyone’s dying...”

Ford got up, walked slowly around the end of the counsels’ table and stood leaning against the railing of the empty jury box. The move was deliberate, to give Devon a chance to compose herself.

“Mrs. Osborne, you stated previously that before your husband left the house on the morning of October thirteen he told you he’d be back for dinner at seven-thirty. Did he come back by seven-thirty?”

“Yes.”

“And you had dinner together.”

“Yes.”

“Was it a pleasant meal?”

“Yes.”

“And when it was over, Mr. Osborne went outside to try and find the dog, Maxie.”

“Yes.”

“What time was that?”

“Eight-thirty, approximately.”

“After he left the house, what did you do?”

“A new record album had arrived in the mail that day and I played it.”

“How big an album?”

“Three records, six sides.”

“What kind of music was it?”

“Symphonic.”

“In most symphonies there are soft passages which require the volume to be turned up quite high if they are to be heard properly. Was the volume turned up high, Mrs. Osborne?”

“Yes.”

“This would make the louder passages very loud, would it not?”

“Yes.”

“Where in the ranch house was the stereo equipment installed?”

“The main living room.”

“And that’s where you sat and listened to the album?”

“Yes, but I didn’t just sit. I walked around, did some dusting and straightening up, glanced at the evening paper.”

“Were the windows closed or open?”

“Closed. It was a hot night and the house stayed cooler when it was shut up.”

“What about the drapes?”

“I opened them after the sun went down.”

“What direction do the windows in the living room face?”

“East and south.”

“What do you see from the windows facing east?”

“In the daytime I can see the riverbed and, on the other side of it, the ranch belonging to Leo Bishop.”

“And at night?”

“Nothing.”

“Is there a view from the windows facing south?”

“You can see Tijuana in the distance both night and day.”

“What about the blacktop road leading into the ranch, is this visible from the main living room?”

“No. It’s west of the ranch house. You can see it from the study and the kitchen and a couple of the bedrooms upstairs.”

“But not from the living room where you were sitting listening to music.”

“Not from there, no.”

Ford went back to the counsels’ table and sat down. “As time passed and your husband remained absent, did you begin to worry, Mrs. Osborne?”

“I tried to tell myself there was nothing to worry about, that Robert had been born on the ranch and knew every inch of it. But around nine forty-five I decided to check the garage to see if maybe Robert had taken the car to search for Maxie instead of going on foot as he usually did. I turned on the outside floodlights from the kitchen. Dulzura was in her room adjoining the kitchen, I could hear the radio playing.”

“Did you find the garage door unlocked?”

“Yes.”

“Was Mr. Osborne’s car in the garage?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do then, Mrs. Osborne?”

“I went back in the house and telephoned Mr. Estivar.”

“The foreman?”

“Yes. His cottage is on the other side of the reservoir.”

“Did he answer immediately?”

“No. He goes to bed around nine and it was almost ten by this time. But I let the phone keep ringing until he woke up and answered. I told him Robert was missing, and he said I was to stay in the house with all the doors and windows locked while he and Cruz made a search with the jeep.”

“Cruz?”

“Estivar’s oldest son. He had a jeep with a searchlight on it.”

“Did you do as Mr. Estivar suggested?”

“Yes. I waited in the kitchen by the window. I could see the lights of the jeep as it went up and down the little dirt roads that crisscross the ranch.”

“Did you notice any other signs of activity, any vehicles in motion, any people, any lights?”

“No.”

“Is it possible to see the mess hall and the bunkhouse from any of the windows of the ranch house?”

“No. A row of tamarisk trees shields the main house from the men’s quarters.”

“How long did you wait in the kitchen, Mrs. Osborne?”

“Until a quarter to eleven, about forty-five minutes.”

“Then what happened?”

“Mr. Estivar came to the door.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He said we’d better notify the police.”

“And did you?”

“Mr. Estivar called the sheriff’s office in Boca de Rio.”

“The sheriff’s men arrived when, Mrs. Osborne?”

“Shortly after eleven o’clock. The man in charge was Mr. Valenzuela. The other man was younger, I don’t recall his name, but he was the one who found all the — the blood in the mess hall.”

“Were you informed of his discovery?”

“Not directly. Mr. Valenzuela came back to the ranch house about eleven-thirty and asked if he could use the phone to call the sheriff’s office in San Diego. I overheard him say that a great deal of blood had been found and it looked like the result of a homicide.”

“What did you do then, Mrs. Osborne?”

“Dulzura was up by that time. She made a pot of coffee and I think I drank some. Pretty soon I heard a siren. I’d never heard a siren on the ranch before, it’s always so quiet late at night. I looked out the kitchen window and saw several cars moving along the road and red lights flashing.”

In addition to the siren there was the sound of Dulzura praying in Spanish, very loudly, as though she had a bad connection. Then suddenly the cuckoo clock above the stove began striking midnight, a mocking reminder that Robert had been gone for three and a half hours and it might be too late for prayers or policemen.

Devon went into the study, closing the door behind her to shut out some of the noise. For the first time she became physically aware of the child in her womb. It felt heavy and inert as a marble cherub.

She dialed the number of Agnes Osborne’s house in San Diego. Mrs. Osborne answered on the third ring, sounding a little annoyed, as though she’d been watching a late show on TV and didn’t like being interrupted by a wrong number.

“Mother?”

“Is that you, Devon? Why aren’t you in bed at this hour? The doctor told you—”

“I think something’s happened to Robert.”

“—get plenty of sleep. What did you say?”

“The police are here now searching for him. He went out to look for Maxie and he hasn’t come back and there’s blood in the mess hall, a lot of blood.”

There was a long silence, then Mrs. Osborne’s voice again, stubbornly cheerful. “It’s not the first time blood’s been found in the mess hall. Why, I can remember a dozen brawls in there, three or four of them quite serious. The men frequently quarrel among themselves, and of course they all carry knives. Are you listening to me, Devon?”

“Yes.”

“What probably happened is this: while Robert was out looking for the dog he heard a fight going on in the mess hall and went in to investigate. Perhaps one of the men was badly injured and Robert had to drive him into Boca de Rio to a doctor.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“He didn’t drive anywhere. His car’s here.”

There was another long pause. Then, “I’ll come right out. For the baby’s sake, don’t get overexcited. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation and Robert will be quite amused when he learns that the police were looking for him. Do you have any tranquilizers to take?”

“No.”

“I’ll bring some with me.”

“I don’t want any.” There was no need to tranquilize the stone mother of a marble cherub...

“...any more questions at this time,” Ford was saying. “You are excused for now, Mrs. Osborne.”

He watched with interest as she stepped down from the witness stand and went back to her place in the spectators’ benches. Long experience in probate work had taught Ford to be suspicious of meek little women. They had a tendency to inherit if not the earth, at least some large chunks of worldly goods.

“Call Mr. Secundo Estivar.”