U Is For Undertow

5

The home address Sutton had given me was 2145 Hermosa Street, on the west side of town. His was a neighborhood of condominiums and single-family residences, many of which were rentals. The houses tended to be small and plain, with stucco exteriors and shallow-pitched asphalt roofs. Frame bungalows were tucked between two-story apartment complexes devoid of architectural interest. Mature trees towered over the tenth-of-an-acre lots on which they’d been planted, suggesting a lack of vision on the part of those first owners, who’d apparently failed to recognize that after forty-five years of California rain and sun, a red gum sapling or a two-foot spruce would dominate the front yard and dwarf the modest house it was meant to ornament.

I slowed, scanning the progression of house numbers on a stretch of pinched-looking, one-story board-and-batten cottages. The exterior of 2145 Hermosa was painted a gaudy yellow, the window frames and trim outlined in royal blue. The effect was not as cheerful as one might hope. The strong hues only emphasized the cheap construction and the sad state of disrepair. Above the small covered porch, a square window suggested habitable attic space, which would be unbearably hot and stuffy in the summer months and cold and damp at any other time of year. To the right of the wooden porch steps, a mass of pink snowball bushes obscured one of the two front windows. To the left, the thorny paddles of a prickly pear cactus had fanned out in a configuration that rendered the narrow side yard impassable.

I found a parking place, locked my car, and walked back to the house. Ordinarily, locking my car was more cautionary than critical, but not in this area. Hermosa came to a dead end at the 101, which was visible through a bare patch of wire fence that was otherwise blocked by weeds. Freeway traffic kicked up a buffeting wind, accompanied by an eddy of exhaust fumes. Trash had been sucked up against the fence where the rush of passing cars created a vacuum. How did a kid raised in Horton Ravine end up in a neighborhood as crummy as this? When Climping Academy boasted about entire graduating classes going on to college, there wasn’t any mention of what came afterward. I’d always imagined a high-toned education guaranteed an equivalent high-toned lifestyle, but I lived better than this guy and what was that about?

I went up the porch steps and knocked on the screen, turning to continue my visual survey while I waited. The two houses directly across the street from Sutton’s had been torn down and someone had taken advantage of the empty double lot to offer off-street parking for ten bucks a week. This was enterprising as parking at the curb was free. Every house I saw had iron grillwork secured across the windows to deter the burglars, who probably had the good sense to burgle the pricier houses in town.

When I heard the front door open, I turned. Sutton stood behind the screen, wearing the same shirt and tie I’d seen him in the day before. His dark brown eyes conveyed the usual unspeakable gloom. He said, “Oh, hi. I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“Sorry to stop by unannounced, but there’s something I want you to take a look at.”

“I was just on my way out. I have a doctor’s appointment.”

“This won’t take long. A minute tops.”

By way of a reply, he held open the screen door. I crossed the threshold and stepped into his front room. The light was muted, filtered through the pink hydrangea blooms that crowded against the window glass. The air smelled of bacon, scorched coffee, spilled beer, cigarettes, and dog hair. A golden retriever lumbered to its feet to greet me, long tail banging against an overstuffed chair. The room was too small to accommodate an animal that size. Dogs need a yard to wander in and a shady spot where they can curl up and snooze. A retriever might also appreciate the opportunity to actually retrieve something, like a ball or a stick. I’ve never even owned a dog and I knew that much.

There was a rail-thin girl stretched out on the sofa in shorts and a tank top, bra visible through the fabric. Her bare legs were thrown over the arm of the couch, treating me to a view of the blackened soles of her feet. She was pretty in a pouty sort of way. Her dark hair was long and her eyes were lined and smudged with kohl. She wore flashy dangle earrings that sparkled when she moved her head. A full ashtray rested within reach, but happily for me, she wasn’t smoking just then. There were three beer cans on the coffee table, two of them empty and lying on their sides. Languidly she extended her hand, picked up the third can, and took a long swallow before she put it back again. I could see a series of overlapping circles on the tabletop where she’d placed the can. If I counted rings, I could re-create the timeline of her alcohol consumption.

Expressionless, she snapped her fingers and the dog crossed the room and settled on the floor close by. I looked at Sutton, anticipating an introduction, but none was forthcoming. I’m reluctant to discuss a client’s business in front of someone else, especially in a circumstance like this when I had no clear sense of their relationship. I wasn’t sure what he’d told her or how much I was at liberty to reveal.

Sutton said, “So what’s up?”

I glanced at the girl. “Would you prefer to talk on the porch?”

“This is fine. She’s cool.”

I opened the flap on my shoulder bag and removed the pages I’d photocopied, handing them to him. “Take a look at these and see if you spot the kid whose house you visited.”

He stared at the photographs, holding them close to his face. I watched his attention shift from face to face. He pointed and said, “That kid.”

I peered over his shoulder. “Which one?”

“Him. I remember now.” He indicated a kindergartner in the middle of the top row. A thatch of dark hair, receding chin, ears that protruded like the handles of a jug.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. His name’s Billie Kirkendall. I hadn’t thought of him in years. His dad embezzled all this money, but it didn’t come to light until the family left town. Overnight, they were gone. It was like this big disgrace. Does this help?”

“Absolutely. The address won’t be hard to find unless Kirkendall was his bio-dad and the couple got divorced. If his mother remarried, we’d have no way of knowing who his stepfather was.”

“Boorman would know. He was always good at stuff like that. He’s the one who organizes our reunions. Not that I go,” he added in haste. He checked his watch. “I have to run.” He held up the picture. “Can I keep this?”

“I’ll make a copy for my files and get it back to you.”

Sutton returned the photograph and picked up his car keys. The girl on the couch watched us, but Sutton didn’t say a word to her. I trailed out the door after him and we trotted down the steps together.

I said, “Give me a call when you’re free and we’ll pay a visit to the Kirkendall property. Maybe you’ll find the spot you were talking about.”

“I’ll be home in an hour and a half. I can call your office then.”

“Good,” I said. “Mind if I ask about the girl in there?”

“That’s Madaline. She was a heroin addict, but now she’s clean. She needed a place to crash.”

“And the dog?”

“She belongs to Madaline. Her name’s Goldie Hawn.”

We parted company with the usual insignificant pleasantries. Sutton turned to the left, angling up the driveway to the point where his car was parked, while I turned in the opposite direction. Once in the Mustang, I fired up the engine and waited until Sutton passed in his car before I pulled out. He drove a banged-up turquoise MG that dated probably from his high school days.

As long as I was downtown, I covered the seven blocks to Chapel, where I hung a left and drove eight blocks up, then crossed State Street and took a right onto Anaconda. Half a block later, I turned into the entrance of the parking facility adjacent to the public library. I waited by the machine until the time-stamped parking voucher slid into my hand and then cruised up three levels until I found a slot. The elevator was too slow to bother with so I crossed to the stairwell and walked down. I emerged from the parking structure, crossed the entrance lane, and went into the library.

The reference department was directly ahead. The wall-to-wall carpet was a dusty rose with a muted pattern of teal green dots. The chairs were upholstered in the same teal green. Light flooded in through six tall arched windows on the far wall. Most of the tables were empty except for a lone man playing himself in a game of chess. In the fiction department to my left, an assistant librarian shelved novels from a cart piled high with books. At the nearest empty table, I set my shoulder bag on one of six empty chairs.

On the wall to my immediate right, the floor-to-ceiling shelves were lined with telephone directories for numerous California cities and towns. The shelves below were filled with additional phone books from assorted cities across the country. I circled the periphery in search of the Polk directory, the Haines, and the six decades’ worth of Santa Teresa city directories that I knew were housed nearby.

The Polk and the Haines are both crisscross directories that offer a means of discovering and cross-referencing the name, address, and occupation of any individual or business in a given area. Where the target is a business, you can also determine the number of people employed and any relevant sales figures. If, as in my case, all you have is a name, you can usually find the person’s home address. If all you have is an address, you can pick up the name of the occupant. By shifting to the city directory, you can check the list of residents against a second alphabetical listing of street addresses. The house numbers are sequential, providing the name and phone number of the resident at any particular address. While the information is redundant, each category supplies tidbits that can be pieced together to form a quick sketch.

I pulled both the Polk and the Haines for 1966 and then selected three city directories-1965, 1966, and 1967-which I carried to the table. I moved my shoulder bag to the floor and pulled up the chair. From the depths of my bag, I removed a notebook and a ballpoint pen. There was only one family named Kirkendall: Keith (CPA) and Margie (grphic dsgnr) at 625 Ramona Road. I made a note of the address and added the names and the house numbers of the neighbors on each side. In Horton Ravine, the properties range from three- to ten-acre parcels, with some larger ones as well. There are no sidewalks and the houses are set back from the road. I couldn’t picture visits back and forth between neighbors or idle gossip across a side-yard fence. I’d never seen anyone seated on the porches visible from the road. My guess was that people were more likely to get acquainted by way of church, the country club, or the numerous civic organizations around town.

While I was doing a paper search, I looked for Michael Sutton’s former address on Via Ynez. I copied the house number in my notebook and then switched over to the Polk, where I picked up the old phone number. In 1967, when Mary Claire Fitzhugh was kidnapped, her family lived on Via Dulcinea. Again, in the interest of being thorough, I found the names of the neighbors on each side. After a twenty-one-year gap, much of the information I’d gleaned would be out of date, but having the names on hand might save me a return trip. I checked the most recent telephone book and made a note of the one listing that was still good.

I replaced the various directories and went downstairs to the periodicals department. At the back desk, I asked the librarian for microfilm copies of the Santa Teresa Dispatch, covering the stretch of dates that encompassed the Mary Claire Fitzhugh kidnapping. I wanted to review the news coverage of the crime before I did anything else. Sutton had sketched in certain significant points, but his prime focus was the time frame and mine was the bigger picture, including details he might have missed.

The librarian returned with two boxed rolls of microfilm, dated July 1-31, 1967, and August 1-31, 1967. I took a seat at a nearby table, flipped on the microfilm reader, threaded the reel under the glass plate, and caught the end piece on the roller. I pressed the button and watched news pages whiz by at a rate that made me dizzy. I paused now and then to check the date line at the top of the page and when I neared the 19th of July, I slowed and began to look in earnest.

The kidnapping garnered front-page headlines for the first time on Sunday, July 23, and occupied center stage for the following ten days, though the account in each edition was much the same. It was clear the FBI had kept a tight rein on the information released to the public, which forced the reporters into endless repetitions of the same few facts. The basics were much as Sutton had related, though I picked up several details he hadn’t mentioned. Mary Claire vanished on Wednesday morning, July 19, though the crime wasn’t reported until four days later. In that interval, which included the whole of Friday and much of Saturday, the police and the FBI had stepped in and put a lock on the case, ensuring that no whisper of the crime reached the public. Events leading up to the abduction were spelled out, but there was little information from that point on.

I started taking notes, in part to distract myself from the specifics of what went down. Even in the flat who, what, where, when, and how of journalism, the story made something in my chest squeeze down. What made the sensation worse was the black-and-white photograph of Mary Claire that appeared with every article. Her gaze was so direct I felt I was looking into her soul. Her smile was sunny, her eyes shaded by pale bangs. The rest of her hair was held back on each side with a plastic barrette. The dress she wore had ruffles down the front, tiny pearl buttons, and puffed sleeves over arms plump enough to kiss. The photographer had given her a stuffed bunny to hold so the occasion might have been Easter of that year.

I remembered reading about her disappearance at the time, but I hadn’t understood the enormity of the crime. What had she ever done to warrant the evil that must have been inflicted on her? I knew without having met the Fitzhughs that they’d doted on her, laughed at her unexpected comments, hugged her when injury or disappointment made her burst into tears. I shifted my focus, blotting out the sight of her face. Then I looked again. This was as much of her as I’d ever know, and there was no way to shield myself from the knowledge that she was gone. Her parents would never have peace of mind, even if her ultimate whereabouts were discovered. In some ways, I wasn’t sure what difference it would make. She was lost to them, the length and breadth of her life consigned to a few short years, beginning, middle, and end.

I forced myself to scrutinize the account of what happened that day. It all sounded so ordinary. The events leading up to her vanishing carried no hint of the horror to come. Mary Claire had been playing on the swing set in the Fitzhughs’ backyard while her mother sat on the back porch reading a book. The only sound on that summer day was the stutter of a leaf blower on the property next door. A landscape company had dropped off a one-man crew. She hadn’t actually seen him arrive, but she could hear him working his way up the drive, clearing the pavement of grass clippings from the lawn he’d mowed. The phone rang. Mrs. Fitzhugh set her book aside and went into the kitchen, where she picked up the handset mounted on the wall near the door to the dining room. The location of the phone prevented her from maintaining visual contact with the child, but the entire yard was fenced and there was no reason to think she was at risk.

The caller introduced himself, claiming he was a sales representative, conducting a brief survey. Mrs. Fitzhugh agreed to answer a few questions. Later she had no recollection of the caller’s name or the name of his company. He hadn’t identified the product he was promoting, but his questions were focused on the number of television sets in the house, the number of hours they were turned on, and the family’s program preferences. In all, no more than four minutes elapsed between the time she took the call and the moment the salesman thanked her and disengaged.

When she returned to the porch, she noticed Mary Claire was no longer on the swing. She scanned the yard-sandbox, playhouse, shallow plastic wading pool-but Mary Claire wasn’t visible anywhere. Puzzled, but not alarmed, Mrs. Fitzhugh called her name, but received no response. She went back into the house, thinking Mary Claire might have slipped in unseen while her attention was focused on the interview questions. When it became clear Mary Claire wasn’t in the house, her mother returned to the yard and circled the perimeter, checking the shrubbery near the back fence. She peered into the playhouse, which was empty, and then continued around the house. She went through the gate, still calling Mary Claire’s name, more alarmed as every minute passed. Frantic, she ran next door and knocked at the neighbor’s house, but no one was home.

Mrs. Fitzhugh returned to the house, intending to call her husband and then phone the police. As she climbed the back steps, she spotted the note that had apparently been left on the side table and consequently fluttered to the floor. The message was block-printed and brief. The kidnapper said her daughter was safe in his keeping and would be returned unharmed in exchange for twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. If the Fitzhughs made any attempt whatever to contact the police or the FBI, the kidnappers would know and Mary Claire would forfeit her life.

All of this became public knowledge four days after the child had been taken. In the interim, the FBI questioned Mary Claire’s parents, who were white-faced and stunned. After the news broke, neighbors, friends, and acquaintances were interviewed, many of them more than once. The case attracted its share of national attention because it involved the only child of a prominent Santa Teresa couple. After the first splash, however, the coverage became repetitive, which suggested that the FBI had cut off the stream of information to the media. No FBI agent was referred to by name, nor was there any mention of investigators at the local level. The Santa Teresa Police Department’s community relations officer issued a statement from time to time, reassuring the public that the investigation was ongoing and that every effort was being made to identify the suspects and recover the child.

As with any major crime, certain critical details were withheld from the public, leaving investigators a means of weeding out the off-kilter citizen, driven by a need to confess. There was no further reference to suspects or persons of interest, though detectives must have combed the area, talking to pedophiles, registered sex offenders, and anyone else whose criminal history seemed relevant. The FBI received tips, sightings of the child in places all across the country. There were also countless calls reporting suspicious behavior on the part of strangers, who’d done no harm at all and whose actions were innocent. Mary Claire Fitzhugh had been swept into the Inky Void and there was no coming back.

Since that time, the papers had run a version of the same article year after year in hopes that something would break. Other kidnap victims were mentioned, anticipating the possibility that someone might recognize a detail and put it together with other facts previously unknown. If Mary Claire was lost, her plight might provoke a confession in another case. For the child herself, the prospects were bleak and had been once the first twenty-four hours had passed without word. At least I understood now why Michael Sutton had been so anxious to unravel the significance of what he’d seen. For my part, the thought of the child’s fate was enough to make me ill.