My Dark Places

25

Daddy Beckett looked like Santa Claus. He was a hard-charging bad-ass in 1981. He was your white-bearded granddad now. He had a heart condition. He was a born-again Christian.

He went to trial at Division 107, L.A. County Superior Court. Judge Michael Cowles presided. Deputy DA Dale Davidson represented the county. A lawyer named Dale Rubin represented Daddy. The courtroom was wood-paneled and nicely air-conditioned. The acoustics were good. The spectator benches were hard and uncomfortable.

O. J. Simpson was on trial four doors down. The hallway was packed from 8:00 a.m. to closing time every day. We were nine floors up. Every elevator ride ran full capacity. The Criminal Courts Building was a multiplex entertainment center. It featured one hot attraction and some courtroom lounge acts. Media crews, picketers and T-shirt vendors circled the building. The pro-O.J. pickets were black. The anti-O.J. pickets were white. The T-shirt guys were biracial. The parking lot was full of camera trucks and sun-deflecting photo orbs on stilts. School was out. A lot of people brought their kids.

The Beckett trial was a box-office dud. Fuck Daddy Beckett. Daddy was low-rent. He was a schmuck with an accordion and a bad rug. The Main Room was four doors down. O. J. Simpson was the whole Rat Pack in their prime. Fuck Tracy Stewart. Nicole Simpson had bigger tits.

Daddy Beckett sat with Dale Rubin. Bill Stoner sat with Dale Davidson. The jury sat along the right-hand wall and viewed the action sideways. The judge sat on a high perch and viewed the action directly. I sat up against the back wall.

I sat there every day. Tracy Stewart’s parents sat in front of me. We never spoke.

Charlie Guenther flew down for the trial. Gary White flew in from Aspen. Bill stuck close to the Stewarts. He wanted to walk them through the trial and help them retrieve their daughter’s remains. Daddy Beckett said he remembered the dump site. He told the Fort Lauderdale cops that he’d send the Stewarts an anonymous note and reveal the location. He hadn’t done it yet. There was no percentage in it. The act could legally backfire. The Stewarts wanted to bury their daughter. They probably knew the whole concept of “closure” was bullshit. Their daughter vanished one day. They probably wanted to stage a reunion and mark her life with a piece of dirt and a stone.

Bill thought they’d never find the body. His ray of hope was a sham. Robbie Beckett said they drove Tracy south and dumped her near a fence. Nobody found her body. The body should have been found. The body might have been found and misidentified. The body might be buried under some other name. Daddy told Robbie to gut the inside of his van a few days after the murder. The act was irrational. The act implicitly contradicted Robbie’s account of the murder. They hit Tracy with a sap. Daddy strangled her. They made a minimal mess.

The body should have been found.

They might have cut Tracy up in the van. They might have dumped her body parts in different locations.

Bill thought they’d never know. Robbie would stick to his story. Daddy would not send that note. Closure was bullshit. They’d convict Daddy. The judge would not impose the death penalty. They needed a body. They needed to prove that Daddy raped Tracy. Robbie said Daddy raped Tracy. It wasn’t sufficient proof. Robbie said that he did not rape Tracy. Bill did not believe him.

Charlie Guenther testified. He described the Tracy Stewart missing-persons case. He described Gary White’s work for the Aspen PD. He consulted a pocket notebook and listed his dates and locations precisely. Daddy Beckett watched him. Dale Rubin challenged a few dates and locations. Guenther checked his notes and corroborated them. Daddy watched. Daddy wore a long-sleeved sport shirt and slacks. His threads complemented his white hair and glasses. His cellmates probably called him “Pops.”

Gloria Stewart testified. She described Tracy’s life and the events preceding her disappearance. Tracy was a shy and fearful girl. Tracy had trouble in high school and dropped out prematurely. Tracy rarely had dates. Tracy ran errands and answered the phone for her parents. Tracy stayed home a lot.

Dale Davidson was gentle. He phrased his questions deferentially. Dale Rubin questioned the witness. He implied that Tracy’s home life was cloistered and extremely neurotic. He came off skittish and unconvinced of his own argument. I watched the jury. I burrowed into their heads. I knew they found the implications unconscionable. Tracy was murdered. Her home life was irrelevant.

Davidson was gentle. Rubin was almost polite. Gloria Stewart was fierce.

She trembled. She cried. She looked at Daddy Beckett. She sobbed and coughed and stumbled over her words. Her testimony said, There is no closure. Her hatred filled the room. She saw Robbie’s trial. She saw him convicted. It was just a passing moment in her hatred. This was one more moment. It was nothing compared to the aggregate force of the hate she sustained every day. She left the witness stand. She veered by the defense table and looked at Daddy Beckett close up. She trembled. She walked to her bench and sat down. Her husband put an arm around her.

I never felt her kind of hatred. I never had a flesh-and-blood target.

The Beckett trial continued. The Simpson trial continued four doors down. I saw Johnnie Cochran every day. He was a perfectly groomed and tailored little man. He dressed better than Dale Davidson and Dale Rubin.

Sharon Hatch testified. She was Daddy Beckett’s squeeze in ’81. She said she dumped Daddy. Daddy flipped out. He threatened her and her kids. Sharon Hatch looked at Dale Davidson. Daddy looked at Sharon Hatch. She said Daddy never hit her. He never threatened her before she dumped him. I followed Davidson’s logic. He was establishing Daddy’s psyche pre- and post-breakup. Daddy was calm before. Daddy wigged out after. I distrusted the before-and-after line. It was a coded cause-and-effect indictment aimed at an innocent woman. The line might hit the men on the jury square in the gonads. They might commiserate with Daddy. The poor guy got fucked by a cold-hearted cunt. I looked at Sharon Hatch. I tried to read her. She seemed passably smart. She probably knew that Daddy was wigged out well in advance of their breakup. He was a strongarm loan collector. He was an armor fetishist. His chivalry to women was a symptom of his hatred for women. He was a sex psycho hibernating. He knew that he wanted to rape and kill women. The breakup gave him a justification. It was based on one part rage and two parts self-pity. You could not date his gender-wide hatred to the moment Sharon Hatch said, “Walk, sweetie.” Daddy Beckett was working toward his explicative flashpoint already. He was like the Swarthy Man in the spring of ’58. I felt a little jolt of empathy for the Swarthy Man. I felt a big jolt of hate for Daddy Beckett. My mother was 43 years old. She was caustic. She could put weak men in their place. Tracy Stewart was utterly helpless. Daddy Beckett trapped her in his bedroom. She was a lamb in his slaughterhouse.

Dale Davidson and Sharon Hatch worked well together. They set Daddy up as a frayed fuse about to unravel. Dale Rubin raised some objections. Judge Cowles overruled some and sustained some. The objections pertained to points of law and flew right over my head. I was back in the South Bay in 1981. I was a half-step from that night 23 years before.

The judge called a recess. Daddy walked to his holding booth outside the courtroom. Two plainclothes cops brought Robbie in. He was handcuffed and shackled. He was wearing jail denims. The cops sat him down in the witness box and uncuffed and unshackled him. He saw Bill Stoner and Dale Davidson and waved. They walked up to him. Everybody started smiling and talking.

Robbie was rough trade. He was tall and broad. His body fat ran about .05%. He had long brown hair and a long, droopy mustache. He looked like he benched 350 and ran a hundred yards in 9.6 seconds.

Court reconvened. The plainclothes cops sat near the jury box. A bailiff waltzed Daddy in. He sat down beside Dale Rubin.

Robbie looked at Daddy. Daddy looked at Robbie. They checked each other out and looked away.

The clerk swore Robbie in. Dale Davidson approached the witness stand. He asked Robbie some preliminary questions.

Robbie talked with a swagger. He was here to vent a patricidal grudge. He emphasized words like “ain’t” and phrases like “He didn’t have no.” He was saying, I know better and I don’t give a fuck. The implication was, I’m me and my father made me who I am.

Daddy watched Robbie. The Stewarts watched Robbie. Davidson led Robbie back to Redondo Beach and Tracy’s house and Daddy’s apartment. Dale Rubin raised several objections. The judge overruled or sustained them. Rubin looked bewildered. He couldn’t divert Robbie’s momentum. Robbie started looking straight at Daddy.

Davidson worked slowly and deliberately. He took Robbie right up to the moment. Robbie started stuttering and crying. He walked Tracy into the bedroom. He gave her to Daddy. Daddy started touching her—

Robbie lost it. He faltered and tripped over his words. Dale Davidson paused. He suspended his questions for a superbly calculated little pocket of time. He asked Robbie if he could talk now. Robbie wiped his face and nodded. Davidson fed him some water and told him to continue. Robbie plugged away at his story like a trouper.

He got drunk. Daddy raped Tracy. Daddy said, We’ve got to kill her. They walked her downstairs. He hit her with the sap—

Robbie faltered again. He faltered on cue. Nobody fed him the cue. He pulled an internal boo-hoo number and choked himself up. He wept for his own misspent life. He didn’t intend to kill a girl that night. His father made him do it. He wasn’t weeping for the girl he killed. He was weeping for his own forfeiture.

Robbie was good. Robbie understood dramatic displacement. He reached for the old self-pity and pulled out some tears and hit the old redemption seeker chord molto bravissimo. He was bad—but not as bad as his father. His wretched character and beautifully feigned remorse gave him instant charisma and credibility. I time-traveled back to 8/9/81. A man had to kill a woman. A boy had to please his father. Daddy only killed women with other males present. Daddy needed Robbie. Daddy couldn’t kill Tracy without him. Robbie knew what Daddy wanted. Did you rape her, too? Did you rape her because Daddy raped her and you hated him and you couldn’t stand to see him have more fun than you? Did you rape her because you knew Daddy would kill her and what’s one more rape then? Did you lay out some garbage bags and dismember her in the back of the van?

Davidson led Robbie through the rest of the night and his initial mop-up procedures. Robbie stuck to his often-told and formally recorded story. Davidson thanked him and turned him over to Dale Rubin. Robbie got real then. This was Robbie versus Daddy—with no expendable piece of ass to distort the goddamn issue.

Rubin tried to discredit Robbie. He said, Didn’t you bring Tracy home for yourself? Robbie denied it. Rubin rephrased the question repeatedly. Robbie denied it repeatedly. Robbie raised his voice with each denial. Robbie was all pride now. He strutted from a sitting position. He said “No” with exaggerated inflections and bobbed his head up and down like he was talking to a fucking retard. Rubin asked Robbie if he got in fights back then. Robbie said he was a red-blooded guy. He liked to kick ass. He learned it from his father. He learned all the bad things he knew from his father. Rubin asked Robbie if he beat up on his girlfriends. Robbie said no. Rubin expressed disbelief. Robbie told Rubin he could think what the hell he liked. Robbie bobbed his head harder and harder each time he said “No.” Rubin persisted. Robbie persisted with much greater flair. He had at least ten stock readings for the word “No.” He stared at Daddy Beckett. He smiled at Dale Rubin. The smiles said, You can’t win because I’ve got nothing to lose.

Daddy Beckett stared at his hands. He looked up and locked eyeballs with Robbie a few provocative times. He always looked down first. He didn’t look down from fear or shame. He looked down because he was tired. He had a bad heart. He was too old to play mind games with young buck convicts.

Robbie spent a day and a half in the box. He was questioned and cross-questioned and coddled and badgered. He endured. He never wavered. He never appeared to dissemble. It was patricidal performance art. Robbie was bravura. Robbie sang grand opera. Robbie probably overestimated the effect on his father. Daddy Beckett was yawning a lot.

Davidson brought up the Sue Hamway case. Robbie told the court what he knew. Davidson brought up Paul Serio. Robbie portrayed him as a quiff and Daddy Beckett’s stooge. Rubin brought up Serio. Robbie satirized the quiff’s body language and worked it into his head-bob routine. Rubin could not shake Robbie. His hate filled the room. It was generically infantile hatred reasoned out over time. Robbie was starring in his own life story. Tracy Stewart was the ingenue lead. Robbie felt nothing for her. She was just a bitch who sideswiped two men and made things go blooey.

Robbie finished his testimony. The judge called a recess. I almost applauded.

Daddy’s first ex-wife testified. She said Daddy was an awful daddy. He was brutal with Robbie, David and Debbie. David Beckett testified. He pointed to Daddy in open court and called him a “piece of shit.” Dale Rubin cross-examined David. He said, Aren’t you a convicted child molester? David said he was. He pointed to Daddy and said he learned it from him. He didn’t elaborate. Debbie Beckett could not testify. She was dead of AIDS attributed to intravenous drug use.

Paul Serio testified. He described his part in the Susan Hamway murder. He laid all the blame on Daddy. He didn’t know it was a hit. He thought it was a debt shakedown. Daddy iced Sue Hamway solo. Daddy whipped out a dildo and said, Let’s make it look like a sex snuff.

Serio pitched some regret for Sue Hamway’s baby. The baby starved to death while Sue Hamway decomposed.

Bill Stoner testified. He described the Beckett investigation from day one on. He was calm and authoritative. He counterbalanced Robbie’s histrionics. He was an independent auditor called in to itemize and total up the cost. Dale Rubin tried to ruffle him. Dale Rubin failed.

The defense called three witnesses. Two of Robbie’s old pals testified. They said Robbie used to pound on total strangers for no reason. Rubin controlled his witnesses. They sketched a nice picture. The pre-Tracy Robbie was impetuous and unpredictably violent. The revelation lacked punch. Robbie’s preemptive strike nullified it. Robbie drew the same picture. He drew it more dramatically and in the first person.

Rubin called his last witness. Another old pal testified. He said Robbie said he raped Tracy Stewart. I believed him. I couldn’t read the jury. I figured their response was, So what? Robbie’s in prison already. You can’t discredit Robbie. He upstaged you with his self-immolation. We’re tired. We want to go home. Thanks for the ride. We’ve got jury box whiplash. It was fun. It was groovier and less protracted than the Simpson mess. We got sex and family discord. We bypassed the scientific shit and the specious rants on race. The lounge act blitzed the Main Room show.

The trial was almost over. Bill predicted a fast guilty verdict. Gloria Stewart could stand up in court and confront Daddy Beckett. She could abuse him. She could beg for Tracy’s body. The Victim Confrontation was new legal stuff. It promoted victim’s rights and psychological cleansing. I told Bill I didn’t want to see the closing arguments and the Stewart confrontation. Daddy would yawn. Gloria would say her piece and go on grieving. The confrontation law was passed by morons hooked on daytime TV I didn’t want to see Gloria’s audition. I didn’t want to see her as a professional victim. Bill never introduced us. He never told her who I was or who I lost in June ’58. He knew we’d have nothing to say to each other. He knew I never hurt like she did.

The Beckett trial lasted two weeks. Bill and I drove up in separate cars every day. Bill went out with Dale Davidson and Charlie Guenther most nights. They’d hook up with Phil Vanatter sometimes. Vanatter was famous now. He worked the murder case of the century. The Beckett crew went out to celebrate the end of the trial. Vanatter went with them. Bill invited me. I took a pass. I wasn’t a cop or a deputy district attorney. I didn’t want to talk shop with pros. I didn’t want to commiserate or discuss the farcical aspects of the Simpson case. I was running low on white man’s outrage. The LAPD kicked indiscriminate black ass for 50-plus years. Mark Fuhrman was Jack Webb with fangs. DNA was unassailably precise and confusing. Racist conspiracies carried more dramatic weight. Bill knew it. He was too gracious to rub it in Phil Vanatter’s face. Marcia Clark needed a black Robbie Beckett. A black Robbie could indict OJ. with home-grown soul. Justice was politics and theater. O. J. Simpson wasn’t Emmett Till or the Scottsboro Boys. Victimhood was exploitable. I wasn’t Gloria Stewart.

I drove out to West L.A. I wanted to find a private pay phone and call Helen. I wanted to talk about Tracy and Geneva.

I remembered the phone bank at the Mondrian Hotel. It was rush hour. Sunset Boulevard was probably jammed. I turned north on Sweetzer. I crossed Santa Monica Boulevard and saw where I was.

I was driving through a murder zone.

Karyn Kupcinet died at 12-something North Sweetzer. It was late 11/63. Jack Kennedy was four or five days dead. Somebody strangled Karyn in her apartment. She was nude. Her living room was a mess. She was facedown on the sofa. Sheriff’s Homicide handled the case. Ward Hallinen worked it. They looked at Karyn’s actor boyfriend and one of Karyn’s freaky neighbors. Karyn’s father was Irv Kupcinet. He was a big talk-show host and columnist in Chicago. Karyn moved to L.A. to score as an actress. Her dad was floating her. She wasn’t making it. Her boyfriend and his friends were. Karyn ran a few pounds over svelte. She took diet pills to control her weight and fly. Charlie Guenther thought she died accidentally. They found a book on the coffee table near her body. It was all about nude dancing. You could dance like a wood nymph and free your inhibitions. Guenther figured she was bombed. She was dancing stark nude. She fell down and broke her hyoid bone on the coffee table. She crawled up on the couch and died. Bill thought she was murdered. It could have been the boyfriend or the freaky neighbor or some geek she picked up at a bar. They got a lot of tips in ’63. They still got tips. An FBI guy called in a tip recently. He said he got it off a wiretap recording. A mob guy said he had the real goods. Karyn was giving a guy some skull and choked to death on his dick.

I turned west at Sweetzer and Fountain. I saw the El Mirador building. Judy Dull lived there. She was 19. She had an estranged husband and a kid already. She posed for cheesecake pix. Harvey Glatman found her. Glatman was a Jean Ellroy suspect. Jack Lawton cleared him on Ellroy and nailed him on Dull.

I turned north on La Cienega. Georgette Bauerdorf’s apartment house stood right there. Georgette Bauerdorf was murdered on 10/12/44. A man broke into her pad. He stuffed a bandage roll in her mouth and raped her. She choked to death on the roll. They never found the killer. Ray Hopkinson worked the case. Georgette was 19—like Judy Dull. Georgette had money—like Karyn Kupcinet. Georgette volunteered at the USO Canteen. Her family was back in New York. Her friends said she was nervous and smoked too much. She lived all by herself. She drove around L.A. impulsively.

Karyn was running on dope and hiding out behind her father’s money. Judy was running from too much life too fast. Georgette got cabin fever and ran to the boys at the USO Canteen. Tracy hid out at home. Robbie picked her up there. Jean picked the wrong town to hide in.

I saw their faces. I formed them into a group shot. I made my mother their mother. I placed her in the middle of the frame.

Tell me why.

Tell me why it was you and not somebody else.

Take me back and show me how you got there.