My Dark Places

17

My apartment came furnished. The chairs and couch were dipped in synthetic stain-repellent. The rental agency supplied bedding and cooking utensils. The previous tenant left me some bug spray and Old Spice cologne.

The rental folks installed a telephone. I hooked up an answering machine. The pad was low-class by my current standards. The living room and bedroom were small. The walls were blank white. I rented the place on a month-to-month open-end lease. I could cut out at a moment’s notice.

I moved in. I started missing Helen fast.

The place looked like a good obsession chamber. It was tightly contained and cavelike. I could close the curtains. I could turn off the lights and chase the redhead in darkness. I could buy a CD player and some music. I could listen to Rachmaninoff and Prokofiev and spin off that point where lyrical flights go discordant.

Bill’s house was twenty minutes away. Bill carried a reserve badge and a gun permit. He was working for the DA’s Office on an ad-hoc basis. They were building their case against Bob Beckett Sr. Bill had carte blanche at Sheriff’s Homicide. He had access to all the files and communications equipment. Our investigation was sanctioned by Sheriff’s Homicide. Bill would share information with the Unsolved crew. He had the Jean Ellroy file out on permanent loan. He said we had to study every scrap of paper in it.

I bought a large corkboard and nailed it to my living-room wall. I borrowed some file photos and made a collage.

I tacked up two shots of my mother in August ’57. I tacked up the evil portrait of the Swarthy Man. I wrote a question mark on a Post-it note and placed it above the three pictures. I selected five pervert mug shots and placed them below the spread.

My desk faced the display. I could look up and see my mother moving into her tailspin. I could see the final result. I could blitz my memory of her younger and softer.

Bill called me. He said I should meet him at the Sheriff’s Academy. He wanted to show me some evidence.

I drove out and met him in the parking lot. Bill said he had some fresh news.

Sergeant Jack Lawton died in 1990. Ward Hallinen was still alive and living down in San Diego County. He was 83 now. Bill talked to him. He didn’t recall the Ellroy case at all. Bill explained our situation. Hallinen got excited and told him to bring the file down. Something in it might spark his memory.

We walked to the evidence warehouse. A small office adjoined it. Three clerks were standing around. They were deep into topical bullshit. A white guy said OJ. did it. Two black guys disagreed. Bill flashed his badge and signed an evidence form.

A clerk took us back to the warehouse. It was wicked hot and roughly the size of two football fields placed sideways. It was lined with heavy-duty steel shelving.

The ceiling was 30 feet high. The shelves ran all the way up. I saw 20 or 30 rows packed with plastic bundles.

Bill drifted off. I stood by a desk near the door. The clerk brought me a bundle. It was marked Z-483-362.

It was transparent plastic. I saw four small plastic bags inside. I opened the outer bag and placed the smaller bags on the desk.

The smallest bag contained minute dust and fiber samples. A tag listed their origin: “1955 Oldsmobile / MMT-879 / 6/ 26/58.” The second bag held three small envelopes. They were sealed. They were marked with my mother’s name and Z-file number. The contents were listed separately below:

“Vic’s fingernails (sample).”

“Vic’s hair (sample).”

“Vic’s pubic hair (sample).”

I didn’t open them. I opened the third bag and saw the dress and brassiere my mother wore to her death.

The dress was light and dark blue. The brassiere was white with a lace bodice. I held them and put them to my face.

I couldn’t smell her. I couldn’t feel her body in them. I wanted to. I wanted to recognize her scent and touch her contours.

I ran the dress over my face. The heat was making me sweat. I got the lining a little bit wet.

I put the dress and brassiere down. I opened the fourth bag. I saw the cord and nylon stocking.

They were twisted up together. I saw the point where the cord frayed and snapped around my mother’s neck. The two nooses were intact. They formed perfect circles no more than three inches across. My mother’s throat was constricted to just that dimension. She was asphyxiated with just that much force.

I held the ligatures. I looked at them and turned them around in my hands. I held the stocking to my face and tried to smell my mother.