I is for Innocent

13

I stopped off at Rosie's on the way back to my place. I don't usually hang out in bars, but I was restless and I didn't feel like being alone just then. At Rosie's, I can sit in a back booth and ponder life's circumstances without being stared at, picked up, hit on, or hassled. After the wine at Francesca's, I thought a cup of coffee might be in order. It wasn't really a question of sobering up. The wine at Francesca's was as delicate as violets. The white wine at Rosie's conies in big half-gallon screw-top jugs you can use later to store gasoline and other flammable liquids.

Business was lively. A group of bowlers had come in, a noisy bunch of women who were celebrating their winning of some league tournament. They were parading around the room with a trophy the size of Winged Victory, all noise and whistles and cheers and stomping.

Ordinarily Rosie doesn't tolerate rowdies, but their spirits were contagious and she didn't object.

I got myself a mug and filled it from the coffeepot Rosie keeps behind the bar. As I slid into my favorite booth, I spotted Henry coming in. I waved and he took a detour and headed in my direction. One of the bowlers was feeding coins into the jukebox. Music began to thunder through the bar along with cigarette smoke, whoops, and raucous laughter.

Henry slid in across from me and put his head down on his arm. "This is great. Noise, whiskey, smoke, life! I'm so sick of being with that hypochondriac of a brother. He's driving me nuts. I swear to God. His health regimen occupied our entire day. Every hour on the hour, he takes a pill or drinks a glass of water… flushing his system out. He does yoga to relax. He does calisthenics to wake up. He takes his blood pressure twice a day. He uses little strip tests to check his urine for glucose and protein. He keeps up a running account of all his body functions. Every minor itch and pain. If his stomach gurgles, it's a symptom. If he breaks wind, he issues a bulletin. Like I didn't notice already. The man is the most self-obsessed, tedious, totally boring human being I've ever met and he's only been here one day. I can't believe it. My own brother."

"You want a drink?"

"I don't dare. I couldn't stop. They'd have to check me into detox."

"Has he always been like that?"

Henry nodded bleakly. "I never really saw it till now. Or maybe in his dotage he's become decidedly worse. I remember, as a kid, he had all these accidents. He tumbled out of trees and fell off swings. He broke his arm once. He broke a wrist. He stuck a pencil in his eye and nearly blinded himself. And the cuts. Oh my God, you couldn't let him near a knife. He had all kinds of allergies and weird things going wrong with him. He had a spastic salivary gland… he really did. Later, he went through a ten-year period when he had all his internal organs taken out. Tonsils and adenoids, appendix, his gallbladder, one kidney, two and a half feet from his upper intestine. The man even managed to rupture his spleen. Out it came. We could have constructed an entire human being out of the parts he gave up."

I glanced up to find Rosie standing at my shoulder, taking in Henry's outburst with a placid expression. "He's having a breakdown?"

"His brother's visiting from Michigan."

"He don' like the guy?"

"The man is driving him nuts. He's a hypochondriac."

She turned to Henry with interest. "What's the matter with him? Is he sick?"

"No, he's not sick. He's neurotic as hell."

"Bring him in. I fix. Nothing to it."

"I don't think you quite understand the magnitude of the problem," I said.

"Is no problem. I can handle it. What's the fellow's name, this brother?"

"His name is William."

Rosie said "William" as she wrote it in her little notebook. "Is done. I fix. Not to worry."

She moved away from the table, her muumuu billowing out around her like a witch's cape.

"Is it my imagination or has her English gotten worse lately?" I asked.

Henry looked up at me with a wan smile.

I gave his hand a maternal pat. "Cheer up. Is done. Not to worry. She'll fix."

I was home by 10:00, but I didn't feel like continuing my cleaning campaign. I took my shoes off and used my dirty socks to do a halfhearted dusting of the spiral staircase as I went up to bed. Works for me, I thought.

I was awakened in the wee hours with a telegram from my subconscious. "Pickup," the message read. Pickup what? My eyes came open and I stared at the skylight above my bed. The loft was very dark. The stars were blocked out by clouds, but the glass dome seemed to glow with light pollution from town. The message had to be related to Tippy's presence at the intersection. I'd been brooding about the subject since David Barney first brought it up. If he was inventing, why attach her name to the story? She might have had a ready explanation for where she was that night. If he was lying about the incident, why take the chance? The repair crew had seen her, too… well, not really her, but the pickup. Where else had I come across mention of a pickup truck? I sat up in bed, pushed the covers back, and flipped on the light, wincing at the sudden glare. In lieu of a bathrobe, I pulled on my sweats. Barefoot, I padded down my spiral staircase, turned on the table lamp, and hunted up my briefcase, sorting through the stack of folders I'd brought home from the office. I found the file I was looking for and carried it over to the sofa, where I sat, feet tucked up under me, leafing through old photocopies of the Santa Teresa Dispatch. For the third time in two days, I scanned column after column of smudgy print. Nothing for the twenty-fifth. Ah. On the front page of the local news for December 26 was the little article I'd seen about the hit-and-run fatality of an elderly man, who'd wandered away from a convalescent hospital in the neighborhood. He'd been struck by a pickup truck on upper State Street and had died at the scene. The name of the victim was being withheld, pending notification of his next of kin. Unfortunately, I hadn't made copies of the newspapers for the week after that so I couldn't read the follow-up.

I pulled out the telephone book and checked the yellow pages under Convalescent Homes amp; Hospitals. The sublistings were Homes, Hospitals, Nursing Homes, Rest Homes, and Sanitariums, most of which simply cross-referenced each other. Finally, under Nursing Homes, I found a comprehensive list. There was only one such facility in the vicinity of the accident. I made a note of the address and then turned the lights out and went back up to bed. If I could link that pickup to the one Tippy's father owned, it might go a long way toward explaining why she was reluctant to admit she was out. It would also verify every word David Barney'd said.

In the morning, after my usual three-mile run, a shower, breakfast, and a quick call to the office, I drove out to the South Rockingham neighborhood where the old man had been killed. At the turn of the century, South Rockingham was all ranchland, flat fields planted to beans and walnuts, harvested by itinerant crews who traveled with steam engines, cookhouses, and bedroll wagons. An early photograph shows some thirty hands lined up in front of their cumbersome, clanking machinery. Most of the men are mustachioed and glum, wearing bandannas, long-sleeved shirts, overalls, and felt hats. Staunchly they lean on their pitchforks while a dusty noon sun beats down. The land in such pictures always looks pitiless and flat. There are few trees and the grass, if it grows at all, seems patchy and sparse. Later aerial photos show the streets radiating from a round hub of land, like the spokes of a wagon wheel. Beyond the outermost rim, the squares of young citrus groves are pieced together like a quilt. Now South Rockingham is a middle-class neighborhood of modest custom-built homes, half of which went up before 1940. The balance were constructed during a miniboom in the ten years between 1955 and 1965. Every parcel is dense with vegetation, houses crowded onto every available lot. Still, the area is considered desirable because it's quiet, self-contained, attractive, and well kept.

I located the convalescent hospital, a one-story stucco structure flanked on three sides by parking lots. From the outside, the fifty-bed facility looked plain and clean, probably expensive. I parked at the curb and climbed four concrete steps to the sloping front walk. The grass on either side was in its dormant stage, clipped short, a mottled yellow. An American flag hung limply from a pole near the entrance.

I pushed through a wide door into a comfortably furnished reception area, decorated in the style of one of the better motel chains. Christmas hadn't surfaced yet. The color scheme was pleasant: blues and greens in soothing, noninflammatory shades. There was a couch covered in chintz and four matching upholstered chairs arranged so as to suggest intimate lobby chats. The magazines on the end tables were neatly fanned out in an arc of overlapping titles, Modern Maturity being foremost. There were two ficus trees, which on closer inspection turned out to be artificial. Both might have used a dusting, but at least they weren't subject to whitefly and blight.

At the desk, I asked to see the nursing home director and was directed to the office of a Mr. Hugo, halfway down the corridor to my left. This wing of the building was strictly administrative. There were no patients in evidence, no wheelchairs, gurneys, or medical paraphernalia. The very air was stripped of institutional odors. I explained my business briefly, and after a five-minute wait Mr. Hugo's personal secretary ushered me into his office. Nursing home directors must have a lot of holes to fill in their appointment books.

Edward Hugo was a black man in his midsixties with a curly mix of gray and white hair and a wide white mustache. His complexion was glossy brown, the color of caramel. The lines in his face suggested an origami paper folded once, then flattened out again. He was conventionally dressed, but something in his manner hinted at obligatory black-tie appearances for local charity events. He shook my hand across his desk and then took his seat again while I took mine. He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. "What can I help you with?"

"I'm trying to learn the name of a former patient of yours, an old gentleman who was killed in a hit-and-run accident six years ago at Christmas."

He nodded. "I know the man you're referring to. Can you explain your interest?"

"I'm trying to verify an alibi in another criminal matter. It would help if I could find out if the driver was ever found."

"I don't believe so. Not to my knowledge, at any rate. To tell you the truth, it's always bothered me. The gentleman's name was Noah McKell.

His son, Hartford, lives here in town. I can have Mrs. Rudolph look up his number if you'd like to speak to him."

He went on in this manner, direct, soft-spoken, and matter-of-fact, managing in our ten-minute conversation to give me all the information I needed in a carefully articulated format. According to Mr. Hugo's account of the night in question, Noah McKell had removed his IV, disconnected himself from a catheter, dressed himself in his street clothes, and left his private room by the window.

I was surprised by that. "Aren't the windows kept locked?"

"This is a hospital, Miss Millhone, not a prison. Bars would constitute a danger if a fire ever broke out. Aside from that, we feel our patients benefit from the fresh air and a view of some greenery. He'd left the premises on two other occasions, which was a matter of great concern to us, given his condition. We considered the use of restraints for his protection, but we were reluctant to do so and his son was adamant. We kept the bed rails up and we had one of the aides look in on him every thirty minutes or so. The floor nurse went in at one-fifteen and discovered the empty bed.

"Of course, we moved very quickly once we realized he was gone. The police were alerted and the security people here began an immediate search. I received a call at home and came right over. I live up on Tecolote Road so it didn't take me long. By the time I got here, we'd heard about the hit-and-run. We went to the scene and identified the body."

"Were there any witnesses?"

"A desk clerk at the Gypsy Motel heard the impact," he said. "She ran out to help, but the old man was dead. She was the one who called the police."

"You remember her name?"

"Not offhand. Mr. McKell would be able to tell you, I'm sure. It's possible she's still there."

"I think I better talk to him in any event. If the driver was found, I won't need to take any more time with the questions."

"I'd like to think he would have told us if that were the case. Please give me a call and let me know what you find. I'd feel better about it."

"I'll do that, Mr. Hugo, and thanks for your help."

I called Hartford McKell from a public telephone booth that was located near a hamburger stand on upper State. There was no point in going back to the office when the accident site was only two blocks away. I pulled out a pen and a notepad, prepared to take notes.

The man who answered the phone identified himself as Hartford McKell. I explained who I was and the information I needed. He sounded like a man without humor-direct, impatient, with a tendency to interrupt. In the matter of his father's death, he made it clear he wasn't interested in commiseration of any sort. The story seemed to spill out, his anger unabated by the passage of time. I refrained from comment except for an occasional question. The driver of the vehicle had never been found. The Santa Teresa Police had conducted an intense investigation, but aside from the skid marks, there hadn't been much in the way of evidence at the scene. The only witness-the motel desk clerk, whose name was Regina Turner-had given them a sketchy description of the truck, but she hadn't seen the license plate. It was one of those traffic fatalities that outraged the community and he'd offered a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the driver. "I brought Pop down here from San Francisco. He'd had a stroke and I wanted him close. You know where he was headed every time he left? He thought he was still up there, just a few blocks from his place. He was trying to get home because he was worried about his cat. Animal's been dead now for fifteen years, but Pop wanted to make sure his cat was okay. It makes me crazy to think someone's gotten away with murder."

"I can understand-"

He cut me off. "No one can understand, but I'll tell you one thing: You don't run over an old man and then drive on without a backward glance."

"People panic," I said. "One in the morning, the streets are virtually empty. The driver must have figured no one would ever know the difference."

"I don't really care what the reasoning was. I want to nail the son of a bitch. That's all I care about. Do you have a line on this guy or not?"

"I'm working on it."

"You find the driver and that twenty-five thousand is yours."

"I appreciate that, Mr. McKell, but that's not my prime interest in the matter. I'll do what I can."

We terminated the conversation. I got back in the car and drove the two blocks down State Street to the intersection where the elder McKell was killed. The + formed by the two cross streets was bounded by a motel, a vacant lot, a garden-style medical complex, and a small bungalow, which looked like a private residence, converted now to real estate offices. The Gypsy was an unassuming block of units, with all the architectural grace of a two-by-four, bounded on all sides by strip parking. An accordion-pleated metal portico jutted out in front. The two-story building had probably gone up in the sixties and seemed to rely heavily on concrete and aluminum-frame sliding doors. I parked in the portion of the motel lot set aside for registration. The office was glass-enclosed with ready-made mesh drapes blocking out the early afternoon sun. A blinking neon sign out in front alternated NO and VACANCY.

The woman behind the desk was big-not the giant but the large economy size. She had a big well-shaped nose, a large mouth rosy with lipstick, ice-blond hair pulled up in a braid on top, the coil of hair wrapped around itself until it formed a rope. She wore mauve glasses with beveled frames, the lower portion of both lenses smudged slightly with peachy foundation makeup. Her street clothing was obscured by a pink nylon smock of the sort worn by cosmetologists.

I took out a business card and placed it on the counter. "I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for Regina Turner."

"Well, I'll try. I'm Regina Turner. Glad to meet you," she said. We shook hands. Our conversation was put on hold briefly when the telephone rang; she held one finger up as a digital marker while she verified some reservations. "Sorry for the interruption," she said when she'd hung up. She gave my card a perfunctory glance and then focused a sharp look on my face. "I don't answer questions about the folks who stay here."

"This is about something else," I said. I was halfway through my explanation when I saw her clock out. I could tell she'd already leapfrogged to the end of the conversation. "You can't help me," I said.

"I wish I could," she replied. "The police talked to me just after that poor old man was killed. I felt awful, honestly, but I told them everything I know."

"You were working that night?"

"I work most nights. Anymore, you can't get good help, especially around the holidays. I was right here at the desk when the accident occurred. I heard the squeal… that's an awful sound, isn't it? And then a thump. This pickup must have barreled around the big bend out there at sixty miles an hour. Truck caught the old fella in the crosswalk and flung him right up in the air. Looked like somebody been gored by a bull. You know how in the movies you see 'em get tossed like that? He came down so hard I could hear him hit the pavement. I looked out the front window and saw the truck pull away. My view of the intersection is excellent. You can see for yourself. I dialed nine-one-one and went out to see what I could do. By the time I got to him, the poor man was dead and the truck had taken off."

"Do you remember the time?"

"Eleven minutes after one. I had that same little digital clock sitting on the counter and I remember seeing that the time was one-one-one, which is my birthday. January eleventh. I don't know why, but something like that will stick with you for years afterwards."

"You didn't see the driver?"

"Not at all. I saw the truck. It was white, with some kind of dark blue logo on the side."

"What kind of logo?"

She shook her head. "That I can't help you with."

"This is good though. Every little bit helps," I said. There were probably only six thousand white trucks in California. The particular pickup involved in the accident might have been junked, repainted, sold, or taken out of state. "I appreciate your time."

"You want your card back?" she asked.

"You keep it. If you think of anything that might help, I hope you'll get in touch."

"Absolutely."

At the door, I hesitated. "Do you think you could identify the truck if I brought you some pictures?"

"I'm pretty sure I could. I may not remember it, but I think I'd recognize it if I saw it again."

"Great. I'll be back."

I returned to my car, aware of the little rush of hope I was having to subdue. I wanted to make an assumption here. I'm not a fool. I could see the probability that the white pickup truck involved in McKell's death was the same pickup that had bumped into David Barney approximately thirty minutes later and approximately eight miles away. There was too much at stake to jump to conclusions about who was driving it. Better to play it by the book as I'd been taught. The first step was to take pictures of several similar vehicles, including the truck owned by Tippy's father, Chris White. If Regina Turner could make a positive ID, then I'd have something concrete to start with. Step two, of course, was to figure out who had actually been at the wheel.