Guilt

CHAPTER 56

On TV, it would have been a cinch.

The female skeleton’s DNA tracked to Qeesha D’Embo, that of the baby in the park was linked to both Qeesha and Donny Rader. Bloodstains, bone fragments, skin flakes, and hair found in the double garage that Rader had set up as his taxidermic workshop belonged to mother and child.

Several of the women located through Mel Wedd’s little blue book confirmed that Rader had often retired to the dark, dingy, space after partying, demanding to be left alone with his “projects.”

The bullet pulled from Mel Wedd’s brain matched a.45 in Rader’s firearms closet. Rader’s collection consisted of thirty-seven poorly maintained weapons included an Uzi and a Russian assault rifle.

Milo had hoped that the.22 bullet pulled from Adriana Betts would match the gun he’d taken from Rader. But it didn’t, couldn’t be traced to any of Rader’s armaments. That lent credence to the notion that someone else, most probably Melvin Jaron Wedd, had murdered her.

Most probably at Rader’s request, but good luck proving that.

The more I thought about Rader’s and Wedd’s identical SUVs, the stronger the hero-worship scenario got. But Deputy D.A. John Nguyen didn’t like it, was intent upon finding something more ominous and premeditated.

“I need creepy psycho stuff, Alex. Give me Manson, bloodlust, a folie a deux, the works.”

Milo said, “Seems creepy enough as is, John.”

“Never enough.” Nguyen grinned. “Maybe I’ll get a book deal out of it.”

Reality was, the case would stretch on for months, maybe years. Donny Rader, despite being buttressed by an army of high-priced legal talent, had failed in his request for bail. But the special cell he occupied at the men’s jail put him safely away from the gangbangers and the lunatics and the trophy-hunters, and stories had begun to circulate about special privileges for the star, mailbags overflowing with love letters sent by severely disturbed women all over the world, female deputies charmed by the artfully slurring actor.

Kelly LeMasters got a serious book deal from a New York publisher and quit the Times. Tough luck, John N.

The smart money had Rader avoiding trial via diminished capacity, serving some time in a cushy mental hospital, maybe eventually getting out.

I wasn’t so sure. Then again, I’d been wrong about so much.

At this point, I could live with that.

One month and five days after Rader’s arrest, I drove to Western Pediatric Medical Center, looked for Salome Greiner, found her again in the doctors’ dining room. Late in the day for lunch. Just her and her Jell-O, cottage cheese, and tea. As if she never left the place.

I sat down across from her.

She said, “The prodigal psychologist returns.”

I said, “Jimmy Asherwood was a wonderful man who led a tragic life. I can see why you’d want to protect him. I have no desire to smear his memory. He did nothing to deserve that. Quite the contrary.”

She sighed. For all her vitality, an old woman. I felt like a troublesome son. Continued, anyway.

“I know about his war injury, know that any relationship you and he had wasn’t sexual.”

Anger caused her mandible to jut. “From you,” she said, softly, “I’d expect a bit more imagination.”

That threw me.

She said, “What exactly do you want?”

Rather than answer, I said, “Jimmy respected the right of a woman to control her own body but he was aware that sometimes women-girls-could be pushed into decisions they really didn’t want. Girls from a certain social caste who’d created an inconvenience for their families. Enter, Swedish Hospital.”

“Goods and services for cash, darling. What could be more patriotic?”

“When the girls decided to terminate, Jimmy went along with it. But unlike the other physicians, he tried to find out what they really wanted. Stepped in when he felt they were being steamrolled. How’d he convince the parents?”

“You’re the expert on human nature.”

“My guess is he told them the procedure could endanger their daughter’s life. And I’ll bet some parents didn’t care and found themselves another doctor because for a certain genre of alleged human being, stigma trumps everything.”

Her response was to saw a cube of Jell-O.

I said, “When the babies were born, Jimmy’s involvement didn’t end. Just the opposite, he took care of everything. With the help of Eleanor Green, a compassionate soul who loved kids. Exactly the type of person who should become a nurse.”

“Ellie,” she said. A liver-spotted hand rose to her breast.

I said, “Ellie and you. Maybe others.”

“Army of the just,” she said. “We were a little battalion of … idealistic meddlers.” She put down her fork. “After Dachau, I felt I needed to.”

I touched her hand. She pulled away. “Are you satisfied, Alex?”

“Sometimes Jimmy delivered the babies, sometimes you did. When the infants were up to the journey, they were transferred to Ellie’s care. In a big house in a nice neighborhood that Jimmy rented for that purpose. After being medically screened for a few months, they were given to families who wanted them. People who’d been screened. Not official adoptions, everything had to be off the record.”

“Thirty-three,” she said. “That’s how many we placed. People all over the country. Thirty-three adults who have no idea.”

“Thirty-three minus one,” I said. “What happened?”

Shaking her head, she got up. I expected her to leave but she walked to the hot-water urn, filled a fresh cup, unwrapped a tea bag, watched it dangle.

When she returned to the table, I said, “Salome, I’m sorry if-”

“Crib death. That’s what we called it then, later we got fancy, the way we always do, and it became sudden infant death syndrome. That didn’t explain what caused it but it sounded more scientific, no? Nowadays we have our theories but we still don’t really understand it. We do know how to prevent a significant amount of it.”

“Sleeping on the back, never the stomach.”

She smiled. “All those babies with flat heads, parents get all exercised, thinking their little gift’s going to grow up looking funny and not get into Harvard. I tell them relax, stop worrying about stupid things.”

She shook her head. “No sleeping on the tummy, so simple. That’s how she-how Ellie found him. On his belly, not moving. A boy, boy babies are more vulnerable than girl babies. Maybe that never changes, eh, Alex?”

I said, “You live longer than we do, that’s why we get to postpone our maturity.”

Now her hand rested on mine. “You were always a witty one.”

I got myself some coffee. The two of us drank for a while before she said, “Ellie thought it was her fault. Jimmy and I found her rocking the baby, he’d been dead for a full day, she’d sat with him all that time, didn’t want to let go of his body.” Shivering. “I had to pry it from her.”

“So you allowed her to bury him in the backyard.”

She gripped both my hands, exerted astonishing pressure. “Why not, Alex? Her grief was monumental and we couldn’t exactly report it to the health department.”

“Of course not,” I said.

“We had a little ceremony. At night. Nondenominational. Each of us offered a prayer. Whispering to avoid alerting the neighbors. Jimmy dug the hole. I planted a little sycamore tree I’d purchased at the nursery. And flowers. Clivia. Around the base. They’re beautiful orange, love the shade. We wanted Sam-we gave him a name, so he’d be someone-we wanted to place him in a miniature coffin, but we couldn’t figure out where to find one without arousing suspicion. So we used … something else.”

“Metal box from the hospital. Used to bring money to the bank.”

“It’s what we had, the alternative was, what, an orange crate?”

“I assumed there was symbolism, Salome.”

“What?”

“He was seen as having great value.”

She stared at me. Smiled. “I like that. I will adjust my memories to include that. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

“Did Jimmy and the rest of you continue placing babies?”

“Of course,” she said.

“But Ellie stopped.”

Nod.

“What happened to her?”

“She moved to another city, I will not tell you where. Married a man who loved her, I will not tell you his name. Had a baby of her own. Died. That’s all you need to know, Alex.”

I stood. “Thank you.”

“You will tell the policeman?”

“No reason to.”

“Then why-ah, of course. You were always driven. A little obsessive, maybe?”

I smiled. “It happens.”