W Is for Wasted

10

I left the bank and drove home. I’d promised to help move supplies and equipment from Henry’s guest rooms back into the storage areas off the kitchen at Rosie’s Tavern, and I wanted to make good on the offer. I found a parking space and walked the short distance to the studio, noting that Henry’s station wagon was already sitting in the drive, the back hatch open in preparation for loading. I rounded the corner just as Henry emerged from the house, toting a cardboard box laden with packaged goods. I half expected to see William in the backyard leaning on his cane, but he was nowhere in evidence.

“Where’s William? I thought he’d be supervising.”

“I dropped him off for his physical therapy appointment. I’ll pick him up in an hour. In the meantime, I thought I might as well start loading up. Seems silly to drive half a block, but I refuse to haul it all by hand.”

“I have a quick call to make and then I’ll pitch in,” I said. “Is there a scheme in the works or is it grab and go?”

“I’ve been picking up items in random order. When William gets back, we’ll park him in Rosie’s kitchen and he can tell us how he wants the shelves arranged.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Don’t ask.”

“What about the cat?”

“Ed’s fine. He slept in my bed with his head on the pillow next to mine. And don’t roll your eyes.”

“I won’t. I swear.”

I rolled my eyes as soon as my back was turned, but I was smiling as I did so. I unlocked the studio and set my shoulder bag on the nearest stool. I put a call in to Aaron, who picked up on the second ring. I gave him Ted Hill’s name and the name of the bank. “It doesn’t sound like he’s going to be a butt about getting into the box,” I said.

“Do you want to be there?”

“Absolutely! I’d love it.”

“Good. I’ll talk to Hill and get back to you.”

I left the studio door open in case Aaron called back while I was moving items. Henry was better at loading than I was, so I delivered boxes and left it up to him to determine how to stack and stow them in the back of the station wagon.

The cat supervised our efforts, climbing in and out of the car, walking across the seat back, and perching in the spot with the best view, usually right where Henry intended to put a box. The vet had told Henry the cat was less than two years old, and it was clear he’d retained many of his kittenish ways. I’m not going to report every cute thing the cat did, but I noticed both Henry and I had taken up baby talk in our inane, ongoing conversational exchange with him. Henry swore Ed understood English, though he didn’t seem that interested in what we had to say. Whatever the cat’s native tongue, his tone of voice couldn’t be the same high-pitched, goofy one Henry and I had adopted in our comments to him. I always knew having a cat around would do this to me, which is why I’ve resisted. I’d thought Henry and I were of like minds, but clearly he’d lost his.

Aaron called at 6:00 that night. We’d completed the move. Henry and William were still over at Rosie’s, reorganizing the goods and equipment. They’d insisted they didn’t need my help, so I’d come home to shower. The phone rang as I was coming down the spiral stairs in a fresh pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.

“We’re meeting Ted Hill at the bank at nine,” Aaron said when I picked up the phone. “He’s got a nine-thirty appointment at the Colgate branch, so he’ll have one of the tellers oversee our efforts. Once he’s sure the situation’s under control, he’ll leave us to our work. Why don’t I meet you at that little coffee shop across the street and buy you breakfast before we go to the bank?”

“Great. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Department has a slush fund we use to pay the occasional confidential informant. I told the coroner you’d rustled up some good intel, saving me the work. I suggested you should be compensated for the time you put in.”

“Well, on that basis, I’m happy to accept.”

• • •

In the morning, I skipped my run. I could have made an earlier start or shortened the distance to carve out sufficient time, but I was in the mood to take a day off. I slept in until 7:15, scandalously late by my standards. To celebrate the change of pace, I put on a pair of pantyhose, my black flats, and my black all-purpose dress. This versatile and completely wrinkle-resistant garment is the only bona fide dress I own, good for cocktail parties, funerals, and semi-solemn occasions in between. I flapped a ceremonial rag across the shoulders where a fine layer of dust had settled. After that, I figured I was good to go.

I found a space in the parking structure adjacent to the coffee shop. Aaron had been watching for me and he rose to his feet politely when he saw me come in the door. I joined him in a booth by the window, where we could watch foot traffic out on the street—clerks, judges, court reporters, lawyers and their clients heading for the courthouse. A black-and-white bus, designated as the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department transport, pulled up at the curb and a parade of orange-clad and shackled inmates emerged from the vehicle and shuffled into the building, accompanied by three uniformed corrections officers.

Aaron’s hair was damp from his morning shower, comb tracks still evident as he handed me a menu and checked for the specials of the day. He wore a sport coat over a blue-and-white-checked shirt with a folded necktie visible in the pocket. He looked up as the waitress approached, coffeepot in hand. She filled our cups and delivered small pods of half-and-half from a pocket in her apron. We ordered, Aaron opting for bacon, scrambled eggs, and wheat toast, while I asked for the steel-cut oats, which came with small containers arranged on a separate tray: brown sugar, raisins, blueberries, butter, candied pecans, and a small pitcher of cream, for which I substituted milk. We chatted about inconsequential matters, and once the waitress delivered the food, took time out to eat.

Aaron ate faster than I did and when he finished the last bite of toast, he ran his napkin across his mouth and then tucked it under his plate. “I heard back from Sacramento late last night with a match on the prints, which confirm Dace’s identity. I thought I’d fill you in on his criminal history before we go over to the bank.”

“Ah. You must have talked to someone in Bakersfield.”

“I pulled up his file and then put in a call to one of the sheriff’s department homicide detectives.”

“Am I going to like this?”

“You might. The story’s actually more interesting than you’d think. Dace spent twelve years in prison on a felony murder conviction that was overturned a year ago.”

“Who’d he kill?”

“I’ll get to that. He’d had some earlier, minor skirmishes with the law. A couple of DUIs. A charge of drunk and disorderly that was later dismissed. Nothing of significance. For years, he ran his own tree-trimming company while he worked on a degree in landscape architecture . . . which he never got, by the way . . .”

“So I heard. Dandy tells me he was a bright guy, and very knowledgeable.”

“Apparently so. He had a reputation for being a hands-on kind of boss. He could push a crew, but he was more than willing to get up there himself when it came to proper pruning. In 1968, he took a bad fall; broke his shoulder and his left hip, which put him out of commission for a while. During his recovery he got caught up in prescription drugs and heavy drinking, which he had a penchant for in any event. Some of this you may know.”

“Not exactly, but close enough. I heard about the pain pills and alcohol,” I said. “I can’t imagine how you get from trimming trees to felony murder, but I’m all ears.”

“Well, he started on a downward spiral. You know how it goes. Once word got out about his boozing, his clients started dropping him, which meant his business went into the toilet. His wife threatened to kick him out, saying she didn’t want the kids exposed to his bad behavior. He managed to hold his marriage together, but things weren’t good by a long shot and the only work he could get was day labor. Bunch of them would stand out on a corner, like hookers, while prospective employers cruised by in their half-ton trucks, looking them over and quizzing them about their skills. He and another fellow named Herman Cates picked up a couple days’ work trimming trees . . .”

While I listened, I worked on my oatmeal. I pushed the raisins to the bottom of the bowl so the heat would plump them. Then I folded in the milk and sugar. My Aunt Gin favored a couple of pats of butter, but that’s too decadent for my taste.

Aaron was saying, “What Dace doesn’t know is this guy Cates is a registered sex offender and he has his eye on the teenaged girl in a bikini, sunning herself the yard next door. She’s abducted that night, and two days later they find her body stuffed in a sewer pipe half a mile away. She’s been raped and strangled with the cord from the rope-and-pulley system on the very pruning saw Dace was using that day.”

I lowered my spoon. “Are you sure about this? I never even met the man, but I find that hard to believe.”

“Sheriff’s department didn’t have a problem with it. Cates was identified from a palm print left at the scene and he’s the one who implicated Dace. Eventually, Cates ended up on death row in San Quentin, but Dace insisted all along that he was innocent. His wife got on the stand and testified he was home the night the girl was kidnaped. Jury figured she was lying through her teeth. Vote on the guilty verdict was unanimous and the judge sentenced him to life in prison. He spent the next twelve years writing letters to anyone and everyone.”

“I’ve had letters from inmates and they always sound like crackpots. Long, garbled tales about political conspiracies and corruption in the legal system.”

Aaron leaned forward. “Here’s the kicker. Two years ago, Cates finds out he’s terminal. He’s diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, three months to live at the outside, and he decides he doesn’t want to die with a bad conscience. He finally tells the authorities Dace wasn’t the guy, that it was someone else.”

“Amazing.”

“That’s what I said. You’d think Cates’s recanting would be sufficient, but no deal. Prosecutor thinks it’s bullshit. Dace’s original defense attorney is retired and suffering early stage dementia so he’s no help. The judge doesn’t want to hear about it and there’s no one willing to go to bat for him. Twenty-five letters later an attorney finally agreed to look into Dace’s claims. He went back and reviewed all the old police files and the evidence in storage, including a bloody shirt Dace had always sworn wasn’t his. The attorney got a judge to sign an order submitting the semen sample and the bloody shirt for DNA testing that wasn’t available back then. Sure enough, results ruled him out.”

“What about the real guy?”

“He’d been killed in a prison riot two months before. Dace was freed but his life was in pieces, as you might imagine.”

“Humpty Dumpty.”

“That’s about it. This was a major embarrassment for the department. Let’s not even talk about the DA’s office. No one believed Dace was innocent. Some still won’t accept the fact because who wants to take responsibility when you’re that far off? Dace’s attorney uncovered a host of other issues. Crucial reports were ‘lost.’ Exculpatory evidence was swept under the rug.”

Aaron glanced at his watch and signaled the waitress for the check. “There’s more, but it can wait.”

We finished the last of our coffee and Aaron paid the bill. We went out into the morning sun and crossed the street to the bank without saying a word. Dace’s story made chitchat seem inappropriate.

Ted Hill had been watching for us and he held the door open as we approached. Aaron introduced himself and the two men shook hands. Both of us provided photo identification. Aaron had brought a letter from the coroner, identifying the John Doe as R. T. Dace, verifying the date and cause of death, and asking the bank’s cooperation in the matter of the safe deposit box. Hill barely paid attention. Once he’d made up his mind to help, the official folderol didn’t seem to matter to him. Hill introduced us to a teller named Joyce Mount, who would accompany us into the vault. Ted Hill excused himself and suggested Aaron call him later in the day.

Aaron and I went into the vault with Ms. Mount. Aaron used the key we’d found in Dace’s backpack and the teller used the master. In fewer than ten seconds, the safe deposit box was on the table in front of us. Aaron and I pulled up chairs side by side. The teller remained on hand as the bank’s representative, probably as curious as we were about what we’d find.

Aaron removed the contents of the box and fanned out the papers on the table. He had a notebook and he kept a written inventory, cataloging each item as he examined it and passed it on to me. The first was a savings account passbook. He flipped through, looking at a number of entries, and then checked the final balance. He blinked, made a note, and handed it to me.

The account had been opened nine months before on January 8, 1988, which must have been shortly after Dace arrived in town. The initial deposit was $597,500. The last transaction, a withdrawal of $200, was date-stamped October 1, 1988, leaving a balance of $595,350.

I said, “Whoa. I heard he had money, but I had no idea the total was anywhere close to this. I figured a couple of hundred bucks. Where’d it come from?”

“That’s what I didn’t have a chance to tell you. He went after the state and sued ’em for twelve million dollars—a million for every year he was incarcerated. After weeks of haggling, he agreed to a settlement. At six hundred thousand dollars, the state got off cheap. He probably could’ve held out for more, but he wanted his life back. He had his freedom. His reputation was clean again and he was eager to see his kids.”

At least I understood now why the bank valued Dace as a customer. Maybe they pegged him as eccentric; all that money and he was still living like a tramp.

The next item was a plain white number-ten envelope that contained school pictures of three kids—a boy and two girls—who I assumed were his. The first name, the name of the school, and the year, 1973, were noted on the back of each photo. A boy, Ethan, appeared to be in his midteens at the time the picture was taken. The middle child, a girl named Ellen, was probably fourteen, and the youngest, Anna, might have been eleven or twelve. By now, the girls would be in their late twenties, the boy in his early thirties. Aaron and I both studied the faces before returning the photos to the envelope.

The next document was a divorce decree in which Evelyn Chastain Dace was named as the plaintive and R. Terrence Dace, the defendant. Dissolution of marriage had been granted in August 1974. This document was followed by a quitclaim deed signed by R. Terrence Dace as grantor, in which he had conveyed the described house and lot to Evelyn Chastain Dace, including all oil, gas, and minerals on and under the property owned by the two of them as joint tenants.

The manila envelope that surfaced next was packed with a number of newspaper clippings from the Bakersfield Californian and the Kern County News, covering the period between February 28, 1972, and November 15, 1973, detailing the murder of a teenage girl who’d first been reported missing the morning of February 26, 1972. The black-and-white newspaper photo of the victim was enough to break your heart. She was a beautiful young woman with long, dark hair and a bright smile.

I skimmed, picking up a paragraph here and there. It helped that Aaron had given me the broad strokes. Knowing how the story turned out put the bits and pieces into context. Herman Cates and R. Terrence Dace were tried separately, court dates and appearances stretching over a protracted period while both defendants were assigned court-appointed attorneys, who probably requested time to prepare.

Herman Cates and a second suspect, R. Terrence Dace, were accused of the abduction and murder of fifteen-year-old Karen Coffey, a freshman at Bakersfield High School. Dace denied any involvement and the state’s case rested, in large part, on the eyewitness testimony of a neighbor who claimed that she saw Dace on the property the day of the abduction . . .

Dace’s defense attorney presented an alibi defense, that he was home with his wife the night of the murder and therefore didn’t have an opportunity to commit the crime. Mrs. Dace’s testimony was supported by a next-door neighbor, Lorelei Brandle, who was at the house during the time in question. The defense also challenged Cates’s credibility in tying Dace to the crime. The jury was unimpressed, and after deliberating for four hours, convicted Dace of felony murder. Dace was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole and began serving his time in January 1974.

It wasn’t difficult to imagine the sequence of events. After Dace’s conviction and sentencing, his wife filed for divorce, insisting that he quitclaim the house to her. Or maybe he’d voluntarily relinquished claim in light of his disgrace. Once he was freed from prison, sued the state, and collected his settlement, the money must have looked like a way to make amends. I could imagine him arriving in Bakersfield, eager to contact his children so he could tell them his name had been cleared. Big mistake. According to Dandy, the reunion was a disaster. In the end, they’d severed their relationship and he’d traveled to Santa Teresa in hopes of reconnecting with whatever remaining family he could find.

Occasionally, the teller would lean forward and look at an item herself, but for the most part she seemed content to observe without comment.

Aaron came to Dace’s social security card and a California driver’s license that had expired in May of 1976. He made a note of the social security number, Dace’s full name, and his address at the time the license was issued. “The initial ‘R’ stands for Randall,” he remarked.

“Good to know.”

He passed both documents to me after he added the information to his inventory.

I checked the date of birth on his driver’s license. “Catch this. He was born in 1935, which means he’s fifty-three years old. He looked more like seventy when I saw him.”

“Nobody ever said drink, drugs, and cigarettes were the fountain of youth.”

“I guess not.”

Aaron read and passed along paperwork related to the settlement, showing Dace’s receipt of the money, his signature attesting to the fact that this was settlement in full, that he held the state harmless, and so forth. I added that document to the mounting pile of those we’d reviewed.

The next items Aaron passed me were three sixteen-page folios Dace had put together for his children. I recognized his characteristic printing style. The three booklets were handwritten and handbound. The first covered edible California plants; the second, medicinal herbs; and the third was devoted to California wildflowers. Included with the text were delicate drawings, some done in pen and ink and some in colored pencil. There was a note attached to each, indicating which child was meant as the recipient. There was no way to know whether he’d put the folios together while he was still in prison or after his release, but I was struck by the care he’d taken. He couldn’t have executed the intricate illustrations if he was drunk. These were like poems made visible, precise and lovingly rendered. For the first time, I realized Terrence Dace was a talented man, with an innate intelligence and sensitivity few people in his life had reason to appreciate. How many hours had he spent on the project, and how much affection had he lavished on the drawings and the text? I hoped someone would track down his kids and deliver these in his behalf. It might make a dent in whatever ill will they bore him. The guy deserved better.

The next envelope Aaron picked up was five inches by eight and closed with a metal clasp. Aaron opened it and removed four black-and-white photographs. They were the old-fashioned Kodak prints edged in white. Aaron noted the topmost photo and studied it briefly before he picked up the next. I did the same thing as he passed each one along. Even the teller leaned forward to have a look. In the first, a towheaded boy of six was perched on the shoulders of a rangy, good-looking man who was grasping the child’s feet to anchor him in place. The background showed glimpses of flat, empty land. I could see a crumpled fence and two young trees. I pictured farmland and open countryside. On the back of the photograph, in pen, the note said ME AND UNCLE R, SEPTEMBER 1941. The boy had to be Terrence Dace. I’d seen him only once, in death, and while it was a stretch to trace the similarities between the child and the wreck of a man he’d become, the faint link was there.

The second photo showed the same towheaded boy, progressed to age ten. This time he and his Uncle R sat on the front stairs of a white frame house, Uncle R on the top step with Terrence seated between his uncle’s knees one step down. The affection between the two was unmistakable. Behind them, I could see a portion of a screen door. Off the bottom step there was a boot scraper shaped like a dachshund, and on the right, partially obscured, was a cast concrete planter filled with marigolds in desperate need of watering. Now I picked up the family resemblance; the same flop of straight hair, the same tilt to the eyes. This one was also marked ME AND UNCLE R. The date was June 4, 1945.

The third and fourth photos were indoor shots, one with a Christmas tree showing in the background. Uncle R wasn’t visible; in fact, I was guessing he was the photographer. Young Terrence, now perhaps twelve, was the proud possessor of a .22 rifle, the box and wrapping paper still in evidence at his feet. No date on the back. The fourth photo was taken in the kitchen, the same house and the same holiday, judging by Dace’s shirt, which appeared in both. Terrence and his Uncle R toasted the season with clear-glass punch cups held aloft. The drink might have been eggnog, something creamy-looking. The curve of whiskey bottle to the right suggested that Uncle R had greatly improved his libation. He might even have accorded Dace a wee tot of Old Crow. This time Uncle R was sitting at the boy’s side with his free arm slung across his shoulders.

No wonder Dace had come looking for his Uncle R’s kids. Uncle R was family as he remembered it; family as it was in the days when he was young and life was good. If he’d been estranged from his own children it would be natural for him to dream of forging a bond with the only family he had left. He’d wanted to be clean and sober before he presented himself. According to Dandy, he’d been drunk until the day he died. So much for that idea.

I heard the rustle of paper.

“Well, this is a kick in the pants,” Aaron said.

I looked up to find him examining the final document, which was backed in blue. “Is that his will?”

“Indeed.”

“What’s the date? Dandy said it was July 8.”

“That’s it,” he said.

“So not sewn into the lining of his sleeping bag after all?”

“Nope. Are these the three witnesses you mentioned?”

He flipped the pages and held out the final page so I could see the printed names and signatures: Pearl White, Daniel D. Singer, and Felix Beider.

I realized that “Dandy” was the shorthand version of Daniel D. Dan D. “I never heard their last names except Pearl’s, and I wasn’t sure that was correct. Dandy referred to her as Ms. Pearly White, but I thought it might have been a play on words.”

Aaron returned to the first page. “Not a word about the disposition of his remains, but his kids might expect to have a say in the matter. He’s got all three listed, but there’s only one address and that’s his son, Ethan’s. Nothing for the two girls, so maybe he didn’t know where they were living.”

He turned to the second page and I saw his gaze zigzag down the lines of print. His mouth turned down in an expression that suggested surprise. “The guy was frosted. Says here, ‘I have intentionally omitted to provide in this will for my son, Ethan, or for my daughters, Ellen and Anna, whose loathing and disdain are irreparable and who have repudiated our relationship and severed all ties.’”

I said, “Dandy told me about that. It must have been quite a blowup.”

“Well, this is helpful,” Aaron went on. “Says, ‘Be it known that I own no real property, have no debts, and have no assets other than the monies deposited in my savings account and the incidental personal effects in my safe deposit box. It is my desire that the executor of my estate should notify my children of my death and deliver the gifts I’ve set aside for them.’”

“If he’s disinherited his kids, does it mean his money goes right back to the state? That would be a pisser,” I said.

“Oh, no. He made sure he had all his ducks in a row. For starters, he’s set it up so the executor and sole beneficiary are the same.”

“Meaning what? Is that a good thing or bad?”

“It’s not a problem one way or the other. I think the tricky issue lies elsewhere.”

He pushed the document across the table and I leaned forward so I could read the name listed in two different places on the same page.

I said, “Oh.”

Because the name was mine.