Mourners

15

JAKE RUNYON

The key was in the Lindens’ mailbox, attached by a chain and hook to a hunk of varnished driftwood. Justine Linden’s doing, probably. Afraid of it being lost, or maybe the driftwood was a feeble attempt to annoy him. He wasn’t annoyed; there were too many large concerns for him to be bothered by the pettiness in people.

He came down off the front stoop, went around onto the path at the side. The key opened the gate lock as well. There were lights showing at the front of the house, but none back here. All the windows looked to be blinded or draped. Throbbing music, something jazzy with heavy emphasis on saxophone and trumpet, came from inside-loud out here, which meant it must be deafening inside. They didn’t want to know if and when he came prowling around. The old, false credo: what you don’t know can’t hurt you.

The outbuilding was dark except for a reflected gleam where moonlight touched window glass. Runyon crossed the patch of damp grass to the entrance. The key let him into shadows and silence, and the faint musty smell of a place that hadn’t been aired out in some time. He shut the door behind him before he felt around for a wall switch.

The switch operated a pair of lamps set well apart from each other, both with low-wattage bulbs which allowed his eyes to adjust immediately to the light. One big room, with a fake knotty pine partition that separated a third of it into a bedroom area, and a closed door at that end that would lead to the bathroom. The other two-thirds was a combination living room and kitchenette, no separation between them. Single-beam ceiling covered with white acoustical tile, walls paneled in more fake knotty pine. Pretty rudimentary. Justine Linden and her brother must not have thought much of their mother. Either that, or they’d built the unit on the cheap out of necessity or parsimony.

Carpeted floor, threadbare in places. Not much in the way of furnishings: sofa, Naugahyde chair, coffee table, end table, TV and VCR on a rolling stand, day bed, dresser, two-burner stove top, tiny refrigerator, stainless-steel sink set into a narrow Formica countertop. No visible phone. Light film of dust on the furniture, and that musty smell: Troxell hadn’t bothered to clean the place. But he hadn’t messed it up any, either. There was nothing on any of the tables or countertop. The only evidence of his occupation were two medium-sized cardboard boxes on the floor next to the couch, a tall pile of newspapers beside the coffee table, and a pair of video cassettes on top of the VCR.

Runyon went around the partition into the bedroom area. The day bed was unmade, no sheets or blankets anywhere. A tiny closet contained dust bunnies and empty hangers. The dresser drawers were empty. Nothing in the bathroom except a bar of soap on a tray that hadn’t been used in so long it had turned stone-hard and developed cracks. He crossed to the other end and opened the refrigerator. Empty. Under the sink was a wastebasket; nothing in there, either.

One of the videos was a slasher film called Bloodbath, the usual crap about a psychotic slaughtering young women. The other was a graphic reality thing in a plain box with a typed title- True Terror: The Most Horrifying Deaths Ever Captured on Film. Touching it made Runyon want to go wash his hands.

He moved over to the cartons. The largest one contained some twenty books, hardcovers and paperbacks both, some with library markings, some new. Serial killer novels. Accounts of high-profile true-crime cases, all involving violent homicide. A sociological study titled The Effects of Violence in American Society, another on the causes and consequences of domestic abuse called Look What You Made Me Do. Abnormal psychology texts: The Killing Mind, Why Did They Kill? The Psychopathology of Rape, Monsters in Disguise: An Illustrated History of Serial Killers.

He repacked the books in the order he’d found them, opened the second carton. Manila file folders, more than a dozen of them, each with a woman’s name printed on the front with a black felt-tip pen. One of the names was Erin Dumont; he recognized three of the others as violent-crime victims whose funerals Troxell had attended. All the names, he found, belonged to victims of either random or domestic violence. Each folder contained a sheaf of newspaper clippings detailing the circumstances of the crime, follow-up news and feature stories, resolution if any; and receipts for floral and memorial offerings. There were four times the number of receipts in the Dumont folder as in any of the others-for flowers sent once or twice weekly, the marble headstone, an annual upkeep payment on her grave. That was all. No notations in Troxell’s hand, no additional contents of any kind.

Two other items in the box. One was a thick bunch of nonreligious Hallmark cards bound together by a rubber band. All new and of more or less the same design, with simple messages: deepest sympathy, heartfelt condolences. Ready to be signed with something anonymous like “A Friend” and sent to victims’ families with or without floral offerings.

The final item in the box was the most interesting of the lot. Pad of ruled yellow foolscap, new, with none of the sheets having been torn off. Five pages had writing on them, all of it in Troxell’s crabbed hand. The top sheet had been done with a ballpoint, the penmanship good and the rows orderly until the last few sentences; those sentences sprawled and had been written with enough pressure to tear the paper in a few places. Rough draft of a letter that had never been sent:

To the S.F. Police Department Three nights ago, at approximately 7 p.m., I was at Lloyd Lake in Golden Gate Park. I stop there sometimes on my way home from work, sit at Portals of the Past and watch the ducks, it’s a quiet place to unwind.

I was returning to my car when I noticed a man and a woman talking alongside a car parked across the road from mine. There was no one else in the vicinity. The man was holding the door open. The woman hesitated as if she was reluctant to get inside, then relented. The man got in after her. I don’t believe either of them noticed me.

He didn’t start the car or put on the lights. As I was buckling my seat belt, I saw them talking and the woman began to laugh. It seemed to make him angry. He said something to her and she stopped laughing. She tried to get out of the car. He grabbed her, dragged her back. I think he might have hit her then. No, I’m sure he did, he punched her in the face, the dome light was on and I saw her head bounce off the door glass and her body slump down on the seat. He pulled the door shut. He started the car and drove away.

I could have followed them but I didn’t.

I sat there a while longer and then I drove home.

I didn’t do anything.

It was dark and I didn’t get a clear look at the woman but she was young and she was wearing a light-colored jogging suit. I think she might be the woman who was raped and murdered that night.

I can’t identify the man, I didn’t get a clear look at him.

I can’t identify the make or model of the car.

I couldn’t read the license plate number.

I don’t really know anything.

I didn’t do anything.

I can’t I couldn’t I don’t I didn’t

The other four pages had been written with a black felt-tip pen. Some of it was the same crabbed handwriting as the letter draft, some was in block printing, a few words had been formed in thick, heavy, doodlelike strokes. Done at different times, but in each case during a period of emotional upheaval.

The first: american? japanese?

2 doors 4 doors? dark color but what color? dark blue dark green dark brown? license plate? 2 something U or O or D but that’s all big man but just husky or fat? what kind of cap? baseball racing sun what? don’t know can’t remember couldn’t tell in the dark didnt pay enough attention why not? you coward you know why not

The second: cant cant coward cant coward coward coward

The third: why why why why whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy

WHY

WHY!!!!!

The last: cant stop any of it from happening cant understand it cant get away from it in the midst of life we are in death its all around us everywhere

SO

MUCH

DEATH

Runyon used the small digital camera he carried to photograph each of the five sheets. Then he replaced the pad, closed the carton. There was nothing else to see in the studio; he’d seen enough, more than enough.

He went back out into the cold night.

Christ,” Bill said, “I was afraid of something like that.”

“Better to know than not. For everybody.”

“Except us. Evidence obtained by illegal trespass. We can’t sit on it, and that puts us smack between a rock and a hard place.”

“I’ll take responsibility if it comes to that. You didn’t order me to get the key.”

“I didn’t order you not to, either.”

“How do you want to handle it?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll need to sleep on it, take a look at those digitals, talk to Tamara. One thing for sure: We’re off this case, as of right now.”

Runyon didn’t argue. He put his cell away, started the car. The Troxell surveillance might be finished, but not the Erin Dumont homicide investigation. Not for Risa Niland. And not for him.

Still nobody home at the Johnson number in Morgan Hill.

McRoyd’s Irish Pub was noisy and crowded, standing-room only at the bar, two bartenders on duty and both needed. The older of the barkeeps was Sam Mc-Royd, a bantam of a man in his sixties, white-haired, garrulous-a court-holder who spent as much time arguing and bantering with his customers as he did mixing drinks. It took Runyon ten minutes to claim a stool, another fifteen minutes to get McRoyd’s ear and ask his questions.

“Weighed three hundred pounds, ye say? Wore his hair in one of them ponytails?”

“That’s right.”

“And a uniform?”

“Might have worn one in here, might not.”

“Don’t place him. Not a regular customer. Let me think on it a minute.”

Runyon ordered a draft beer. McRoyd went to draw it, and when he came back he said, “Now I recall the lad. Giants fan. Steroids.”

“Steroids?”

“Didn’t see nothing wrong with players like Barry Bonds using ‘em. Winning was all that mattered to him, never mind fair play. We had a few sharp words about that nonsense, one night.”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

“Drank Guinness. The right way, slow, to savor the taste. Quiet except for his Giants fever and his crap about steroids. Wore a Giants cap. Turned around with the bill in back, like a catcher before he puts on his mask.”

“Every time he was here?”

“Seems like. Never took it off.”

“But no uniform?”

“No uniform,” McRoyd said.

“Did he talk to anybody besides you? Another customer?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Give you any idea where he lived or worked?”

“Baseball, that’s the sum of it.”

Runyon took a little more than that away with him. Giants fan, Giants cap, didn’t wear a uniform after working hours. Not much, but something. big man but just husky or fat? what kind of cap? baseball racing sun what?

And maybe more than just a little something.

In his cold apartment he brewed a cup of tea and then downloaded the five digital photos onto his laptop. They were all good shots, the writing clearly readable in each. He created and saved a file for them, e-mailed the file to Tamara’s computer at the agency.

He carried his cup into the bedroom, sat on the bed and looked at the silver-framed portrait of Colleen on the nightstand. Her smiling image held his attention for a long time, until the tea was gone and his eyes began to ache and his vision to swim a little at the edges. Then he got up, returned to the living room, switched on the TV for noise. Sat staring at the screen without seeing it.

There was a tight strain of anger in him now. Troxell. The world at large. But mainly it was for himself, for letting the loneliness and the grief get to him again and because he still couldn’t get Risa Niland out of his mind.