Dear Irene

22

THE TWO DOBERMANS behind the chain-link fence were barking at us as if it were something personal – loud and unrelenting, their lips curled and bodies bristling with focused tension. It was clear that they wanted to release that tension by ripping our throats open.

Show no fear, the old wisdom says.

You have to have a lot of faith in fence-builders to trust the old wisdom.

Across the street, three young men leaned against a car parked on a lawn, huddling in their jackets and smoking cigarettes. We were the best show on the block. They weren’t the only ones with front row tickets. Two detectives sitting in an unmarked car were clearly amused by this spectacle of the intimidation of the press. Mark recognized them, but didn’t know them by name.

“Shit,” Mark said. “I hate this.”

I could tell it was more than an expression of irritation or embarrassment. No one else could hear what we said to each other over the racket the Dobermans were making, so I ventured to ask him if he was afraid of dogs.

He gave me a tense shrug. “I was attacked by one when I was ten. I’m a married man, or I’d moon those two jerks in the car so you could see my scars.”

A porch light came on, and a man opened the front door. The dogs became even more determined, jumping against the fence and causing the metal to sing. “Are you from the Express?” the man yelled out to us.

“Yes!” we shouted in unison.

He whistled once and the dogs immediately stopped barking.

“Are you Mr. Edgerton?” Mark asked.

The man nodded. He said something to the dogs in a low voice, some words I couldn’t make out, and they ran over to his side. “You can come on in now,” he called to us.

I glanced at Mark. “Mr. Edgerton,” I called, “I wonder if you could pen the dogs for me.”

“They’re very well-trained,” he answered. “They won’t hurt you.”

“It’s okay, Irene,” Mark said, but I wasn’t convinced.

“Mr. Edgerton, I’m sure those dogs are very well-trained, but I’ve got a real fear of dogs. If you can’t pen the dogs, maybe we could meet you somewhere else.”

There was snickering from the trio behind us.

Edgerton looked thoroughly disgusted with me. “If you’re going to be a baby about it, I guess I’ll put them out back.” He walked into the house, dogs in tow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Mark said. “We’re off to a bad start with him now.”

I put my fists on my hips. “He knew we’d be here about this time, we called him a few minutes ago from a pay phone to let him know that we’re nearby, and he lets us sit out here for ten full minutes while his Doberman pinschers bark their asses off. We were off to a bad start before we got here.”

Mark started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Remind me never to piss you off, Kelly.”

DON EDGERTON WAS about 6’ 2”, lanky and lean. He was as fit as Justin Davis had been, but his face had a kind of rugged handsomeness. A cowboy without hat or horse or rope. Or cows. His skin was leathery, as if he worked in the sun, or had done so before we all got the bad news on tanning. He wore running shoes and faded jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. There was gray in his light brown hair, and a kind of tired but wary look in his blue eyes. James Dean, all grown up?

No, James Dean would have slouched a little by now. Don Edgerton’s nearly perfect posture made me wonder if he had been in the military.

The house was small, one of the wood-framed bungalows that populated this part of town. The only part of it we saw much of was the first room we walked into. A table and four chairs sat at the far end of the room, a worn sofa and a television at the other. A cheap stereo and a record collection sat on a set of shelves made from four cinderblock bricks and two unpainted pieces of particle board. Don Edgerton was apparently unworried about the advent of compact-disc players.

Except for a cheap battery-operated clock and one framed black and white photograph, the walls were bare, but in this house, the effect was not the same as in Justin Davis’s. It was as if Don Edgerton hadn’t really decided that he wanted to stay here.

The framed photo was of a baseball team. From where we sat at the table, I couldn’t make out the team insignia, but it was obviously one of those posed team photos. Not exactly gorgeous, but at least it gave me the idea that he might have interests beyond training his dogs.

Edgerton picked up the beer that had been sitting half-empty on the table and drank from it, not saying anything. I was tired and didn’t like ending an otherwise productive day with this apparently hostile source.

Mark didn’t let Edgerton faze him. He began by gently reminding Edgerton that we were there in part because he had contacted us. He went on to make it sound like Edgerton had done a major public service to Las Piernas, that receiving Edgerton’s call had been this terrific turning point in the investigation. Edgerton started looking a little less sullen, more interested. Mark commended him for his courage and said that the Express shared many of his concerns about Thanatos.

“The Express is especially concerned,” Mark said, “not only because of the way this affects our community, but also because this individual who calls himself Thanatos has focused on Miss Kelly here. We don’t know why, and we don’t know what he has in mind. But he has done his best to make her fearful of him. He has discovered where she lives and on one occasion, broke into her home.”

“He broke into your home?” Edgerton asked, looking directly at me for the first time since we walked in.

“Yes,” I said, and told him the story of being carried into the bedroom.

“Jeee-zus.” The sullenness was gone. He shook his head. “Too bad you’re afraid of dogs,” he said to me. “I feel a lot safer with the Marx Brothers around.”

“The Marx Brothers?”

“Harpo and Zeppo. My dogs. My ex-wife kept Groucho and Chico.”

“Irene’s not the one who’s afraid of dogs,” Mark said. “I am. She was just trying to keep me from being embarrassed in front of those two detectives out there.”

“You covered for him?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “He would have done the same for me.”

He shook his head again.

I asked him about the Olympus Child Care Center, going over the same ground we had covered with Justin Davis and Howard Parker.

“No, I really don’t remember much about it,” Edgerton said. “Some kid got taken off in an ambulance. I remember that.”

“Do you remember moving to Las Piernas?”

“Yeah, sure. During the war. I liked the kids here better than the ones at my school in L.A. And before my mom met her second husband, there was a nice old couple that took care of me in the afternoons. Mr. and Mrs. York. He taught me how to play baseball.”

“So you didn’t go back into child care after that?”

He laughed, but not as if he were amused. “No, not unless you call running from the end of some drunk’s belt child care.”

“The Yorks abused you?” Mark asked.

“No. My stepfather was a drunken asshole.” He turned to me. “Pardon me, Miss Kelly, but it’s the truth. I used to run away all the time. I’d go over to the Yorks’ place. He’d fetch me back. One day, about three years after they were married, he was driving over to the Yorks’ to come get me. I remember seeing the car come down the street – in one lane, then the other. He was looped, as usual. Then all of a sudden, a dog ran out in front of the car. He swerved to avoid hitting the dog, and ran the car up over the curb and hit a tree instead. Killed him. I’ve loved dogs ever since.”

We sat staring at him for a fraction of a moment, then Mark said, “So your mom wouldn’t have met your stepfather if the child care center hadn’t closed?”

He shrugged. “I guess not. But I wouldn’t have met the Yorks either, or lived in a better house. To tell the truth, I’d forgotten about the day care thing having anything to do with moving to Las Piernas.”

We asked about his memories of the Olympus Child Care Center. Although he vaguely remembered the routine of being taken there after school each day, he didn’t remember Pauline or Jimmy Grant, and had no real recollection of Robbie Robinson.

“Is your mother still living?” Mark asked.

“No, my mom died in 1977.” He paused, then asked, “How come all you ask me about is this child care center?”

I explained that the victims had all come to Las Piernas at the same time, following the closure of the center.

He frowned. He kept his eyes on the beer bottle when he asked, “Does this mean I haven’t helped you out after all?”

“You’ve helped,” I said.

Mark surprised me by changing the subject. “Mind if I look at that photo over there?”

Edgerton shifted a little in his chair, and suddenly became fascinated with peeling the label off the bottle. But he said, “No, go ahead.”

Mark stood up and walked to the other end of the room.

“Sorry if I was a little abrupt with you when you first got here,” Edgerton said, still concentrating his gaze on the label. “I’ve been on edge since I read about the Mercury Aircraft thing, and having the cops around here all the time – well, I feel like I’m the one who’s done something wrong. I feel hemmed in. I was supposed to go hunting tomorrow, now they tell me I probably shouldn’t be off alone anywhere. Guess I blamed the paper for the cops camping out here.”

I was about to reply when Mark shouted, “The Dodgers! Good Lord, look at this, Irene!”

Edgerton glanced up at me, then shrugged. I went over to where Mark stood.

“Duke Snider, Gil Hodges, Jim Gilliam, Carl Furillo, Johnny Roseboro,” Mark was saying. “And check out the pitching! Hell, there’s Koufax, Podres, Drysdale – what year was this taken?”

“ 1958,” Edgerton said.

“1958? The first year they played in L.A.?”

“Yeah. Otherwise not a banner year for L.A. We were 71-83 at the end of the season.”

“We?” I asked, but Mark had already picked him out.

“Look, he’s right here!”

Sure enough, a younger Don Edgerton stared back at us from the photo, his posture just as good in those days. He was right in among those people whose baseball cards I used to carry in my back pocket like a family photo album. My collection didn’t start until the 1960s, but I was a devoted Dodgers fan. While Barbara screamed her way through ten or eleven screenings of A Hard Day’s Night, I was wondering if Sandy Koufax would marry me.

“You played with the Dodgers?” I was still amazed.

“Just about long enough for them to take that photo,” Edgerton said. “They called me up for a cup of coffee. I was back in the minors after three games that year.”

“Still, you made it to the big show,” Mark said. “And it was tougher then. Fewer teams, smaller rosters.”

“Oh, I got called back a few times. I was a utility infielder with a decent glove, but I couldn’t consistently hit a curveball, so I’d always end up back in the minors again.”

“How long did you play in the minors?”

“Oh, about eight years. Coached for a while in the minors. Then I came back here and worked for Las Piernas College. Coach baseball, teach fencing and archery.”

“Fencing and archery?” I asked. The guy was full of surprises.

“Yeah, outdated skills, some might say. But I’m a believer in them. I have this theory. Men aren’t men anymore. We’re all getting too soft. Fencing requires grace and agility and quick reflexes. I’d like to see some of these kids that are so hot with video games try it. As for archery, well, that’s how I do my hunting – strictly bow and arrow. Guns aren’t sporting, if you ask me.”

Before I could make a response, he turned to Mark and said, “You did pretty good on that photo. Most people your age can’t name half those guys. Are you a player or a fan?”

Mark smiled. “Both, I guess. I played center field for a semester in college before I ruined a knee.”

The next thing I knew, a serious – and I mean serious – baseball discussion ensued. “Let me show you some other photos,” Edgerton said. He took us down a hallway to a small back bedroom that had been converted into an office.

There was an old olive green filing cabinet and a big wooden desk. A computer sat on the desk, a bulky plastic cover tossed to one side of it. There were framed photos covering almost every inch of wall space. Most were of the Dodgers, many much more recent than the one in the living room.

“These are terrific,” Mark said. “Are you friends with the team photographer?”

“No,” he said, turning red. “I took them. Hobby of mine.” He saw me walk over to the desk – I admit I was hoping to snoop a little – and quickly ushered us out of the room again. “Look, if there’s nothing more I can do for you…”

“Nothing more at the moment,” I said. “Thanks for your help. And for the opportunity to see your photos.”

We said pleasant, if somewhat rushed, good-byes and left.

“OKAY, OUT WITH it,” Mark said, starting up the car.

“He’s a strange one. And he’s nervous about something – I noticed that even before he gave us the bum’s rush.”

“I have the same feeling. And I don’t think it’s the threat of Thanatos coming after him. I just can’t figure out what it is.”

We saw Edgerton’s front door open again. The Marx Brothers ran across the porch to the fence and started barking wildly at us. The audience across the street was long gone, but the detectives were laughing like they had been treated to a double feature of the original Marx Brothers.

“Shit,” Mark said, and drove off.