Chapter 25

Angelo was a short, bald waiter of the same vintage as Lew, rushing flush-faced between two large tables. When the maitre d' beckoned him away, his frown turned a pencil mustache into an inverted V and he approached us, muttering under his breath. Milo had talked to him, too, months ago, but he recalled the interview only vaguely. The troublemaker in black evoked nothing from him but a shrug.

"This is concerning Richard," said Lew.

"Richard was a nice kid," said Angelo.

Milo said, "Is there anything else you can tell us about him?"

"Nice kid," Angelo repeated. "Said he was gonna be a movie star-gotta get back, everyone's bitching about not enough mushrooms in the sauce."

"I'll talk to the kitchen," said Lew.

"Good idea." Angelo left.

Lew said, "Sorry 'bout that, his wife's sick. Give me your card and I'll call you when I have a chance to look at those books."

Driving back to the city, I said, "Maybe the meeting at the Oak Barrel was Richard's audition. Richard answers the casting ad, Wark says let me meet you where you work. See you in your natural habitat. Like a hunter sighting prey. It would also eliminate the need for Wark to have a formal casting location."

"Pretty gullible of Richard."

"He wanted to be a star."

He sighed. "Curly wig, straight wig-this is starting to feel nasty. Now all we have to do is find Mr. W, have a nice little chat."

"You've got a car now. A yellow Corvette isn't exactly inconspicuous."

"DMV doesn't list colors, only make, model, and year. Still, it's a start, if the 'Vette wasn't stolen. Or never registered… Big fenders-probably a seventies model." He sat up a bit. "A 'Vette could also explain why Richard was stashed in his own car.' Vettes don't have trunks."

"Someone else to think about," I said. "The blond girlfriend. She fits the second-driver theory. She waits nearby until Wark's ditched Richard's VW, picks Wark up, they drive away. Untraceable. No reason to connect the two of them with Richard."

"Every producer needs a bimbo, right? Her I don't even have a fake name for." Taking out a cigar, he opened the window, coughed, and thought better of it. He closed his eyes, and his fleshy features settled into what might have passed for stupor. I stayed on Riverside, going west. By Cold-water Canyon, he still hadn't spoken. But his eyes opened and he looked troubled.

"Something doesn't fit?" I said.

"It's not that," he said. "It's the movie angle. All these years sweeping the stables and I finally break into showbiz."

I didn't hear from him in the morning and Robin and I went for breakfast down by the beach in Santa Monica. By eleven, she was back in the shop with Spike and I was taking a call from the obnoxious Encino attorney. I listened to one paragraph of oily spiel, then told him I wasn't interested in working with him. He sounded hurt, then he turned nasty, finally slammed down the phone, which provided a bit of good cheer.

Two seconds later, my service phoned. "While you were on the line, Doctor, a Mrs. Racano called from Fort Myers Beach, Florida."

Florida made me think of the Crimmins boating accident.

Then the name clicked in: Dr. Harry Racano, Claire's major professor. I'd called Case Western two days ago, asking about him. I copied down the number and phoned. A crisp-voiced woman answered.

"Mrs. Racano?"

"This is Eileen."

"It's Dr. Alex Delaware from Los Angeles. Thanks for calling."

"Yes," she said guardedly. "Mary Ellen at Case told me you called about Claire Argent. What in God's name happened to her?"

"She was abducted and murdered," I said. "So far, no one knows why. I was asked to consult on the case."

"Why did you think Harry could help you?"

"We're trying to learn whatever we can about Claire. Your husband's name showed up on one of her papers. Faculty advisers can get to know their students pretty well."

"Harry was Claire's dissertation chairman. They were both interested in alcoholism. We had Claire at the house from time to time. Sweet girl. Very quiet. I can't believe she's been murdered."

Talking faster. Anxious about something?

"Claire worked on alcoholism here," I said, "but a few months before she was killed, she quit her job somewhat abruptly and took a position at Starkweather Hospital. It's a state facility for the criminally insane."

Silence.

"Mrs. Racano?"

"I wouldn't know about any of that. Claire and I hadn't been in contact since she left Cleveland."

"Did she ever show an interest in homicidal psychotics?" I said.

Her sigh blew through the phone like static. "Have you met her parents?"

"Yes."

"And… But of course they wouldn't say anything. Oh, Dr. Delaware, I suppose you'd better know."

She gave me the basic facts. I got the details back at the research library newspaper files.

The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, twenty-seven years ago, but it could've been any major paper. The story had been covered nationally.


FAMILY SLAIN IN YOUTH'S RAMPAGE

Responding to calls from concerned neighbors, police entered a west Pittsburgh home this morning and discovered the bodies of an entire family, and, hiding in the basement, the youth who is alleged to have murdered them.

James and Margaret Bmwnlee, and their children, Carlo, 5, and Cooper, 2, had been stabbed and beaten to death with a knife and a tenderizing mallet obtained from the kitchen of their Oakland home. Brownlee, 35, was a delivery supervisor for Purity Bottled Water, and his wife, 29, was a homemaker. Both were described as early risers with regular habits, and by noon yesterday, when Mr. Brownlee hadn 't left for work and none of the other family members had appeared, neighbors called thepolice.

The suspect, Denton Ray Argent, 19, was found crouching near the furnace, still clutching the murder weapons and drenched with blood. Argent, who lived with his parents and a younger sister three doors down from the Brownlees, was termed odd and reclusive, a high school dropout whose personality had changed several years before.

"He was around fourteen when it started," said a woman who declined to be identified. "Even before then, he wasn 't very social-quiet, but the whole family was, they kept to themselves. But when he got to be a teenager he stopped taking care of himself, real sloppy. You 'd see him walking around, talking to himself, waving his hands around. We all knew he was strange, but no one thought it would ever come to this."

Reports that Denton Argent had worked briefly as a gardener for the Brownlees have not been confirmed. Argent was taken into custody at central jail, pending booking and further investigation.

Plugging Denton Argent's name into the computer pulled up several more stories that reiterated the crime. Then nothing for a month until a page-three item appeared:


FAMILY KILLER COMMITTED TO HOSPITAL

Alleged mass murderer Denton Argent has been judged legally insane and incapable of assisting in his own defense by three court-appointed psychiatrists. Argent, accused of slaying Mr. and Mrs. James Brownlee and their two small children in a homicidal spree that shocked the quiet Oakland neighborhood and the entire city, was evaluated by doctors hired by both the prosecution and the defense.

"It was pretty clear," said Assistant District Attorney Stanley Rosenfield, assigned to prosecute the case. "Argent is severely schizophrenic and completely out of touch with reality. No purpose would be served by going to trial."

Rosenfield went on to say that Argent would be committed to a state hospital for an indefinite term. "Should he ever regain competence, we 'II haul him into court."

One week after that:


MURDERER'S FAMILY STAYS PUT-AND MUM

The parents of family killer Denton Argent have no plans to move from the Chestnut Street address where, three doors from their well-kept house, their son slew all four members of a neighboring family.

Argent, 19, was judged criminally insane and incapable of assisting in his own defense against the charges of murdering James and Margaret Brownlee and their two young children, Carlo, 5, and Cooper, 2. His parents, Robert Ray and Ernestine Argent, owners of a local gift shop, have refused to talk to the press, but neighbors report they have stated an unwillingness to "run from what Denton did." Their shop was closed for three weeks but later reopened, reportedly with a substantial drop in business. But the general attitude of the neighborhood was charitable.

"These are decent people," said another neighbor, Roland Danniger. "Everyone knew Denton was strange, and maybe they should ve tried to help him more, but how could they know he 'd turn violent? If I feel sorry for anyone, it's the little sister; she's always kept to herself, now you don't see her at all."

The reference was to Argent s younger sister, Claire, 12, who was removed from her public junior high school and is reportedly being tutored at home.

Five years later:


FAMILY SLAYER DIES IN ASYLUM

Mass murderer Denton Argent has died of a brain seizure in his cell at Farview State Hospital, authorities reported today.

Argent, 24, murdered an entire family during a bloody early-morning spree five years ago. Judged mentally incompetent, he was committed to the state facility, where he has resided without incident. The seizure, possibly due to a previously undiagnosed epileptic condition, or to psychiatric medication, caused Argent to pass out in his locked cell and to choke on his own vomit in the middle of the night. His body was discovered the following morning. Hospital authorities report no suspicions of foul play.

"Harry never found out until Claire's last year in grad school," Eileen Racano had said. "It was a shock. The poor thing, carrying around that burden."

"How did she bring it up?"

"It was during the time she was working on the final draft of her dissertation. That's always a stressful period, but Claire seemed to be having an especially hard time. Writing didn't come easily to her, and she was a perfectionist, drafting and redrafting. She told Harry she was worried she wouldn't pass her orals."

"Was that a possibility?" I said.

"Her grades were excellent and her research was solid."

I let the unspoken "but" hang in the air.

"Back then, personality issues couldn't be considered," she said.

"So your husband had reservations about Claire's temperament."

"He thought she was a sweet young woman, but… too closed off. And to grow up under a shadow like that… Harry felt she hadn't dealt with it. That it might cause her problems later on."

"How exactly did he find out?" I said.

"One morning he came in to the lab and found Claire there. She looked awful; it was obvious she'd been working all night. Harry asked her why she was driving herself so hard and she said she had no choice, she just had to pass, it was everything she'd lived for. Harry said something to the effect that there was life beyond grad school, and Claire fell apart- sobbing, telling Harry he didn't understand, that becoming a psychologist was all that mattered, she had to do it, she wasn't like other students. Harry asked in what way, and that's when it all came out. Afterward, Claire just curled up on the chair, shivering. Harry gave her his jacket and stayed with her until she calmed down. After that, we reached out more to Claire, invited her over for dinner. Harry was a wonderful man. His students all loved him. Years after he went emeritus, we'd still get letters and cards and visits. Not from Claire, though. After that one episode, she closed up, refused to talk about it. Harry couldn't demand that she receive therapy, but he suggested it strongly. Claire promised she would, but she never confirmed that she had."

"So she passed her exams, received her doctorate, and went her own way."

"Believe me," she said, "it troubled Harry. He even debated holding her up-he was in real conflict, Dr. Delaware. But ethically, he knew he couldn't. Claire had fulfilled all the requirements for graduation, and he felt she'd never trust anyone again if he went public with her story. The funny thing was, at her orals, she was the picture of confidence. Charming, in control, as if nothing had ever happened. Harry chose to take that as a sign that she'd gotten help. But once she had her degree in hand, she shut us out completely. Even after she received the fellowship right here at Case Medical School we never heard from her. A year later, we heard she got a job in Los Angeles. Harry said, 'Claire's going off to the Wild West.' The whole incident bothered him. He wondered if he should've been more forceful in getting her to deal with the guilt."

"She felt guilty about what her brother had done?"

"Unjustified guilt, but yes, that's the way Harry saw it, and his insights were almost always correct. He saw neuropsy-chology as an escape for Claire. Testing, numbers, lab work, no need to get into feelings. He wondered if she'd ever leave the field, and now you tell me she did."

"Her brother died of a seizure," I said. "Did your husband wonder if Claire's career choice might have been related to her seeking an organic basis for Denton's crimes?"

"That, too. But he worried that someday that defense would crumble. Because she wouldn't find any simple answers, might grow disillusioned. Harry was a neuropsycholo-gist himself, but he was also a master psychotherapist. Along with his alcoholism research, he worked with MADD, treating the families of drunk-driving victims. He tried to teach his students the value of maintaining emotional balance."

"Claire didn't get the message."

"The Claire we knew didn't. She was such a… distant girl. Seemed to be punishing herself."

"In what way?"

"All work, no play, never attending department functions, no friendships with the other students. I'd bet the dinners at our home were her main social contacts. Even the way she furnished her room, Dr. Delaware. Student housing's never gorgeous, but most students try to do something with what the university gives them. One night it was especially cold, and Harry and I drove her home. The way she lived shocked us. All she had was a bed, a desk, and a chair. I told Harry it looked like a jail cell. He wondered if she might be trying, symbolically, to share her brother's fate."

Now I knew why Claire had refused to talk about her family to Joe Stargill.

Now I understood Rob Ray and Ernestine's willingness to let Claire shut them out of her life: monumental shame.

No matter what was happening around her…

I'd wondered about family chaos, but my imagination hadn't stretched far enough.

Like so many people who enter the helping fields, Claire had been trying to heal herself. Approaching it from a distance, at first, as she hid behind hard data and lab work. Working for Myron Theobold, a man who'd abandoned psychoanalysis for a Ph.D. in biochemistry. I see myself as a humane administrator.… I don't get involved in their personal lives. I'm not out to parent anyone.

Staying with Theobold all those years because he allowed her to remain a stranger.

Then something changed.

Professor Racano had suspected professional escape wouldn't work forever, and he'd been right. Last year, Claire had gone looking for answers-going about it with characteristic academic detachment, scanning library files for rampages similar to her brother's.

Why at that point in her life? Perhaps something had weakened her defenses… The only thing that came to mind was the divorce. Because marrying Joe Stargill had been another sad stab at normalcy, and it had failed.

I thought of how she and Stargill had met. That afternoon in the Marriott bar, impulsive, just like the Reno wedding. Yet ultimately, Claire's motivation for pairing up with Stargill had been anything but hasty, most probably unconscious. She'd preserved the secrecy with which she'd encrusted herself since adolescence by selecting a self-absorbed child of alcoholics who could be counted upon to concentrate on his own problems and keep his nose out of hers.

Casual pickup, incredible sex. The semblance of physical intimacy, unencumbered by exploration. Stargill had described the marriage as the parallel movement of two busy roommates.

Claire had made a brief stab at decorating her home and her life. After Stargill moved out, she stripped the house bare. Not for serenity. Back to the cell.

Punishing herself, just as Professor Racano had suspected. Trying, once again without consciously realizing it, to replicate Denton Argent's bleak fate in order to bond, somehow, with the brother who'd polluted her formative years.

She'd been twelve when Denton slaughtered the Brown-lees. But maybe much younger when she realized there was something different-maybe dangerously different-about her only sibling. Did she blame herself for not telling someone?

Or was she simply ashamed to be linked genetically to a monster?

I thought of how the Argents had refused to move. Remaining on the same block had to have been wrenching for them. For the entire neighborhood. Had Claire been shunned for the rest of her childhood?

When Denton seized fatally, she'd been seventeen, still living at home. An upbringing capped at both ends by trauma, shame, and loss. Adolescence was hallmarked by the quest for identity. What had happened to Claire's sense of self?

Had she ever visited Denton at the asylum, or had her parents forbidden contact? Had she planned, at some point, to talk to her brother about his crimes? Tried to make sense of events that defied explanation?

If so, Denton's death had killed any hope.

Years later, she decided to look for answers anyway.

Learning about the Ardullo murders must have seemed like salvation.

The parallels between the two cases chilled my blood. I could only imagine how Claire had felt, spooling microfiche, only to come upon Denton's doppelganger in Ardis Peake.

First, shock. Then sickening, spreading familiarity, empathy in its worst incarnation.

Finally, a glimmer of reprieve: one last chance to tackle the Big Why.

Now that I knew what I did, Claire's move to Starkweather, her zeroing in on Ardis Peake, wasn't puzzling at all.

So many madmen, so little time.

Not a choice, really. A psychologically preordained dance backed by the choreography of pain.

A dead certainty.

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