Monster

Chapter 6

Frank Dollard was waiting for us, outside. He walked us across the yard without comment. Giant Chet stood in a corner, staring at chain link. Sharbno the urinator was gone. A few men palsied, a few men sat in the dirt. The sun was even hotter.

Dollard waited as we retrieved Milo's gun and my knife. The outer gate swung open.

Milo said, "Let me ask you a question, Frank. A guy like Hatterson-in prison he'd be lunch meat."

Dollard smiled. "So what's his status here? Low. Same as everyone. For all I know, the other guys don't even know what he did. They don't care much about each other-that's the point. They're not connected."

Driving through the eucalyptus grove, Milo began to laugh.

"What?" I said.

"How's this for a story line: we catch the bad guy; he's some joker they let out by mistake. He pleads insanity, ends up right back here."

"Sell it to Hollywood-no, not stupid enough."

We left the grove, passed into white light. "Then again, you tell me our boy probably doesn't act or look crazy, so maybe I should forget about this place."

"My guess is our boy is probably more like a fifth-floor resident."

"So do I bother looking for a recently released Starkweather alum? And what's with that group Claire ran? Why do low-functioning guys need daily living skills? Unless she had a notion some of them would end up on the outside."

"Maybe it was altruism," I said. "Misguided or otherwise. Heidi Ott might be able to shed some light on it. She'd also be able to tell you if any of Claire's patients have been released recently."

"Yeah, she's definitely high on my list. Tough kid, the way she handled that Ralph guy. Can you imagine a female coming in here, day in and day out?" He drove off Starkweather Drive and back onto the connecting road. The bare gray acreage appeared, then the first of the packing plants, gigantic and soot-stained. Behind the shadowy columns, the blue sky seemed like an insult.

Milo said, "I'm neglecting basic detective dogma: Lay your foundation. Get to know the vie. Trouble is, I'm getting the same feeling about Claire that I did about Dada. Grabbing air. She lived alone, no obvious kinks so far, no pals I can locate, no local family. You heard the way everyone at Starkweather described her: nice, did her job, stayed to herself. Offended no one. Richard's spiritual sister. So what do we have here, a psychopath who goes after inoffensive people?"

"Assuming the cases are related, maybe someone who goes after lonely people."

"Then half of L.A.'s at risk."

"Where is Claire's family?"

"Pittsburgh. Just her parents-she was an only child." He chewed his cheek. "I did the notification call. You know the drill: I ruin their lives, they cry, I listen. They're coming out this week; maybe I'll get more than I did over the phone, which was: Claire had no enemies, terrific daughter, wonderful girl. They're always wonderful girls."

We cut through industrial wasteland. Mounds of rotting machinery, slag heaps, muddy trenches, planes of greasy dirt. Under a gray sky, it could have passed for hell. Today, it just looked like something you kept from the voting public.

Milo wasn't noticing the scenery. Both his hands were back on the wheel, tight-knuckled, white.

"Lonely people," he said. "Let me show you her house."

He drove much too fast all the way to the freeway. As we swooped up the on-ramp, he said, "I was up there for a good part of yesterday, checking out the street, talking to neighbors. Home's the big killing spot for females, so I told the crime-scene guys to take their time. Unfortunately, it looks like time ill spent. Got some prelims this morning: no blood or semen, no evidence of break-in or disruption. Lots of prints all over the place, which you'd expect in anyone's house, but so far, the only matches are to Claire's. Final autopsy's scheduled for tomorrow if we're lucky and no drive-bys stuff up the pipeline."

"What did the neighbors have to say?"

"Take a guess."

" 'She kept to herself, never caused problems.' "

"I'm hanging with the Answer Man." He pressed down on the accelerator. "No one spoke two words to her. No one even knew her name."

"What about visitors?"

"None that anyone saw," he said. "Just like Richard. She did have an ex-husband, though. Guy named Joseph Stargill. Lawyer, lives down in San Diego now. I put a call in to him."

"How'd you find him?"

"Came across some divorce papers she kept in her home office. I called Dr. Theobold this morning; he'll be happy to engage in shrink talk with you. He had some vague recollection of Claire getting divorced. Only reason he found out is each year staff members update their resumes. In the past, Claire had put 'Married' in the marital-status blank. This year she whited it out and typed 'Divorced.' "

"So it was recent," I said. "Theobold didn't ask her about it?"

"He said she just wasn't the type you got personal with."

"Maybe that's why she took the job at Starkweather."

"What do you mean?"

"Great escape. Show up on time, don't make waves, no one bugs you. Like Dr. Aldrich said, the staff gets leeway. Maybe she wanted to do clinical work but was afraid of having to relate to patients. Surrounding herself with psychotics took the pressure off, and as long as none of her patients got violent, she could do what she wanted with them. The perfect escape."

"Escape from what?"

"Academia. And emotional entanglement. Her divorce was recent. Just because she didn't talk about it doesn't mean she wasn't still hurting. People going through life changes sometimes try to simplify."

"You see Starkweather as simple."

"In a sense, it is."

He didn't answer, put on even more speed.

A few miles later, I said, "On the other hand, she got entangled with someone. The person who cut her throat."

The house was like so many others.

Single-story white stucco aged to a spoiled-milk gray, roofed with black composite shingle. Attached single garage, double parking space instead of a front yard. One of those unadorned late-fifties hillside knockups posing as intentionally contemporary but really the product of a tight construction budget. The street was called Cape Horn Drive-a short, straight afterthought of a slit into the north side of Woodrow Wilson, dead-ending at a huge tipu tree. Matching trees tilted over the pavement. The sidewalk was bleached and dry where the branches didn't hover.

Second lot in, third from the end. Eight neighboring residences in all, most like Claire Argent's, with minor variation. Very few cars at the curb, but closed garage doors made it hard to assess what that meant. No major intersections or nearby commercial district. You'd have to intend to come up here.

This high, the air was moving. In the summer light, the tipu trees were filmy, their fern-shaped leaves swishing in the breeze. Contrary creatures: they lost their leaves in the spring, when everything else bloomed. When other branches began to shed, the tipus were a riot of yellow blossoms. Not yet. The only sparks of color shot from flower boxes and potted plants. Other houses, not Claire's.

We made our way up to the front door. Nice views all around. The freeway was miles away, but I could hear it. Nowadays, you always seem to hear it.

LAPD seal on the door. Milo had a key and let us in. I followed him into a tight, bare space too small to be called an entry hall. Two white walls right-angled us into the living room.

Not a lived-in room.

Unmarked walls, empty hardwood floors, not a single piece of furniture.

Milo took three echoing steps and stood in the center. Over his head was a light fixture. Cheap frosted dome; it looked original.

Chenille drapes browned the windows. The walls looked clean but were turning the same gray-white as the exterior.

The floors caught my attention-lacquered shiny, free of scuff marks, dents, drag furrows. As if the inhabitants had floated, rather than walked.

I felt short of breath. The house had no odor-neither the stench of death nor the aromas of tenancy. No food, sweat, perfume, cut flowers, air freshener. Not even the must of disuse.

A vacant place; it seemed airless, incapable of sustaining life.

I made myself take a deep breath. Milo was still in the center of the room, fingers drumming his thighs.

"Cozy," I said, understanding why he'd wanted me to see it.

He turned very slowly, taking in the open area to the left that led to a small kitchen. A single oak stool at an eat-in counter. White Formica laced with a gold threadlike design, also bare except for black fingerprint-powder smudges. Same for the other counters and the cabinets. On the far wall hung an empty wooden spice rack. Four-burner white stove at least twenty years old, refrigerator of matching color and vintage. No other appliances.

He opened the fridge, said, "Yogurt, grapes, two apples, baking soda… baking soda for freshness. She liked things neat. Just like Richard… simplifying."

He began opening and closing cabinets. "White ironstone dishes, Noritake, service for four… Ditto stainless-steel utensils… Everything full of fingerprint powder… One skillet, one saucepan, containers of salt, pepper, no other spices… Bland life?"

On to the stove burners. Lifting the grill, he said, "Clean. Either she never cooked or she was really compulsive. Or somebody else was."

I stared back at the empty front room. "Did Crime Scene take furniture back to the lab?"

"No, just her clothing. This is the way we found it. My first thought was someone cleaned the place out, or she'd just moved in or was in the process of moving out. But I can't find evidence of her leaving, and her deed says she's been here over two years."

I pointed to the virgin floor. "Either she was planning to redecorate or never bothered to furnish."

"Like I said, grabbing air. C'mon, let's take a look at the rest of the place."

A hall to the left led to one bath and two small bedrooms, the first set up as an office. No carpeting, the same pristine hardwood, harsh echoes.

Milo kneeled in the hallway, ran his finger along the smooth, clean oak. "Maybe she took off her shoes. Like in a Japanese house."

We started with the bedroom. Box spring and mattress on the floor, no headboard, four-drawer pecan-veneer dresser, matching nightstand. On the stand were a tissue box and a ceramic lamp, the base white, ovular, shaped like a giant cocoon. Swirls of white fingerprint powder, the telltale concentrics of latent prints.

"Her linens are at the lab," said Milo, "along with her clothes."

He moved the mattress around, slid his hand under the box spring, opened the closet. Empty. Same for the dresser.

"I watched them pack her undies," he said. "No hidden stash of naughty things, just your basic white cotton. Small wardrobe: dresses, sweaters, skirts, tasteful stuff, Macy's, some budget-chain stuff, nothing expensive."

He righted the mattress, looked up at the ceiling, then back at the empty closet. "She wasn't moving out, Alex. This is where she lived. If you can call it that."

In the office, he put his hands together prayerfully and said, "Give me something to work with, Lord."

"Thought you already went through it."

"Not thoroughly. Couldn't, with the criminalists buzzing around. Just that box." He pointed to a cardboard file on the floor. "That's where I found the divorce papers. Near the top."

He approached the desk and studied the books in the cheap plywood cases that covered two walls. Shelves stuffed and sagging. Volumes on psychology, psychiatry, neurology, biology, sociology, bound stacks of journals arranged by date. White powder and prints everywhere.

Milo had emptied the top drawer of staples and paper clips, bits of paper and lint, was into the second drawer, rummaging. "Okay, here we go." He waved a red leatherette savings account passbook. "Century Bank, Sunset and Cahuenga… Well, well, well-looks like she was doing okay."

I went over and looked at the page he held out. Balance of $240,000 and some cents. He flipped to the front of the booklet. The initial transaction had taken place three years ago, rolled over from a previous passbook, when the balance had been ninety-eight thousand less.

Accrual of nearly a hundred thousand in three years. The deposit pattern was repetitive: no withdrawals, deposits of three thousand at the end of each month.

"Probably a portion of her salary," I said.

"Theobold said her take-home was around four, so she probably banked three, took out a grand for expenses. Looks like it didn't change during the time she worked at Starkweather. Which makes sense. Her civil service job classification puts her at a comparable salary."

"Frugal," I said. "How'd she pay her bills? And her tax Is there a checking account?"

He found it seconds later, in the same drawer. "Mont deposits of five hundred… last Friday of the month-sa day she deposited into the savings account. The woman w; clock… Looks like she wrote mostly small check probably household stuff… Maybe she had a credit c; paid the rest of her bills in cash. So she kept five hundrei so around the house. Or in her purse. To some junkie i could be a sizable score. And the purse hasn't been found But this doesn't feel like robbery, does it."

I said, "No. Still, people have been killed for a lot less. Without her purse, how'd you identify her?"

"Car registration gave us her name. We ran her pri matched them to her psychologist's license… A sti junkie robbery, wouldn't that be something? She's out si ping, gets mugged for her cash. But what junkie muj would bother stashing her in trash bags, driving her to a S£ public spot, and leaving her car behind, when he could 1 thrown her somewhere dark, gotten himself some wheel; the night? Then again, most criminals take stupid pills. Okay, let's see what else she left behind."

He got to work on the rest of the desk. The money sho up in a plain white envelope, pushed to the back of the hand bottom drawer. Nine fifty-dollar bills, under a b leatherette appointment book issued as a gift by a drug c pany. Three-year-old calendar, blank pages in the book.

"So maybe she had fifty or so with her," he said. ' spender. This does not feel like robbery."

I asked him for the bankbook, examined every page.

"What?" he said.

"So mechanical. Exact same pattern, week in, week No sizable withdrawals also means no vacations or predictable splurges. And no deposits other than her si implies she got no alimony, either. Unless she put it ir other account. Also, she maintained her individual ace throughout her marriage. What about her tax return? Die file jointly?"

He crossed the room to the cardboard file box. Inside were two years of state and federal tax returns, neatly ordered. "No outside income other than salary, no dependents other than herself… nope, individual return. Something's off. It's like she was denying being married."

"Or she had doubts from the beginning."

He came up with a stack of stapled paper, started flipping. "Utility bills… Ah, here's the credit card… Visa… She charged food, clothing, gasoline for the Buick, and books… Not very often-most months there're only three, four charges… She paid on time, too. No interest."

At the bottom of the stack were auto insurance receipts. Low premium for no smoking and good driving record. No financing on the Buick meant she probably owned the car. No way for her to know it would end up being a coffin on wheels.

Milo scribbled notes and placed the paper back in the carton. I thought of what we hadn't found: mementos, photographs, correspondence, greeting cards. Anything personal.

No property tax receipts or deductions for property tax. If she rented, why no record of rent checks?

I raised the question. Milo said, "So maybe the ex paid the mortgage and taxes. Maybe that was his alimony."

"And now that she's gone, he's off the hook. And if he's maintained some ownership of the house, there's a bit of incentive for you. Any idea who gets the two hundred forty? Any will show up?"

"Not yet. So you like the husband?"

"I'm just thinking about what you always tell me. Follow the money."

He grunted. I returned to the bookcase, pulled a few books out. Foxed pages, neatly printed notes in margins. Next to five years' worth of Brain was a collection of journal reprints.

Articles Claire Argent had authored. A dozen studies, all related to the neuropsychology of alcoholism, funded by the National Institutes of Health. The writing was clear, the subject matter repetitive. Lots of technical terms, but I got the gist.

During graduate school and the five years following, she'd filled her hours measuring human motor and visual skills under various levels of intoxication. Easy access to subjects: County Hospital was the treatment center of last resort for physically wasted alcoholic paupers who used the emergency room as their private clinic. E.R. docs called them GOMER's-Get Out of My Emergency Room.

Her results had been consistent: booze slowed you down. Statistically significant but hardly profound. Lots of academics drudged through undistinguished careers with that kind of stuff. Maybe she had tired of the grant game.

One interesting fact: she'd always published solo-unusual for academic medicine, where chairmen commonly stuck their names on everything underlings produced.

Maybe Myron Theobold had integrity.

Letting Claire do her own thing.

Claire going it alone from the very beginning.

A rattling sound made me turn. Milo had been handling the objects on the desktop and a pen had dropped. He retrieved it and placed it next to a small calendar in a green plastic frame. Another drug company giveaway. Empty memo pad. No appointments, no indentations on the pad.

Such a spare life.

Several books trumpeting the virtues of serene simplicity had recently gone best-seller. I wondered if the newly rich authors practiced what they preached.

This house didn't seem serene, just blank, hollow, null.

We left the office and moved to the bathroom. Shampoo, soap, toothpaste, multiple vitamins, sanitary napkins, Advil. No birth control pills, no diaphragm. The travertine deck around the tub was clear of niceties. No bath beads or bubble bath or loofah sponge-none of the solitary pleasures women sometimes crave. The porcelain was streaked with amber.

Milo said, "Luminol. No blood in the tub or the drain. No semen on the towels or sheets, just some sweat that matches Claire's blood type."

Wondering if anyone but Claire had ever set foot in this house, I thought of the work pattern she'd chosen for herself. Five years with drunks, six months with dangerous psy-chotics. Perhaps, after days immersed in delusion and warp, she'd craved silence, her own brand of Zen.

But that didn't explain the lack of letters from home, not even a snapshot of parents, nieces, nephews. Some kind of contact.

The ultimate Zen triumph was the ability to lose identity, to thrive on nothingness. But this place didn't bespeak any sort of victory. Such a sad little box… or was I missing something? Projecting my own need for attachment?

I thought of what Claire had hoarded: her books and her articles.

Maybe work had been everything and she had been content.

Yet she'd abandoned her first job impulsively, relinquishing grant money, trading dry but durable science for the chance to school psychotic murderers in the art of daily living.

To what end?

I kept searching for reasons she'd traded County for Starkweather, but the shift continued to bother me. Even with comparable salaries, a civil service position was a comedown from the white-coat work she'd been doing at County. And if she'd craved contact with schizophrenics, County had plenty of those. Dangerous patients? The jail ward was right there.

If she was tired of the publish-or-perish grind, then why not do some private practice? Neuropsych skills were highly prized, and well-trained neuropsychologists could do forensic work, consult to lawyers on injury cases, bypass the HMO's and earn five, ten times what Starkweather paid.

Even if money hadn't been important to her, what about job satisfaction? Why had she subjected herself to shift after shift in the ugly gray building? And the drive to Starkweather- day after day past the slag.

There had to be some other reason for what I couldn't stop thinking of as a self-demotion.

It was almost as if she'd punished herself. For what?

Or had she been fleeing something? Had it caught up with her?