by Daniel Fox
Nabozny sat back. “I see.”
“So? Did Bob Tree come here just for that write-up, or does he come here?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“There you go wasting time again. Your next visit gets held up, it’s not my fault. Is Bob Tree a patient of yours?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Actually, it’s exactly my business. And I’m gonna take that as a great big yes.”
“If Robert was a patient of mine I would not be able to divulge our conversations to you.”
“If he wasn’t you would just tell me what you were talking about to get rid of me.”
Nabozny sniffed, annoyed.
George: “I wasn’t expecting to be here today. So I’m not up on the laws about dealing with shrinks. If you knew a patient was dangerous would you have to tell me? Or would you at least be free to if I asked the right questions?”
“You’re George Schuttman.”
“That paper you wrote.”
“Robert has told me about you.”
“Was it about a killer in general, or were you writing it about someone specific?”
“He said he admires you. Admires your courage.”
“Jesus Christ. Will you just answer my questions? Did you write that thing in general-”
“But he said you have a mighty temper.”
“Or did you write it about Bob Tree?”
Nabozny blinked. And then burst out laughing. “Did I write the profile about Robert? Ridiculous! I handed it to him hoping he would bring it to you and that you would recognize his name written in invisible ink between the lines? You are a silly man.”
George felt it. Felt that anger bubbling up.
“A stupid man. If I thought Bob Tree was a killer of women I would have picked up the phone and told you so.”
His vision closed in. His hands clutched the armrests of the chair.
Nabozny wiped at his eyes. “Go on with you, you lout. I’ve had enough of you.”
It was a close thing. Nabozny was about a chuckle and one half hiccup away from getting his nose smashed up beside his left ear.
But the thought hit him – he was already off the case. He’d get in trouble for pursuing this at all.
Another thought - he’d lose his badge for beating the proper amount of starch out of this academic snob.
And a third thought, which he said out loud around a grin that made Nabozny’s chuckles die out. “You’re going to look so stupid if we nail Bobby for it.”
“What?”
“This smart-guy headshrinker has a killer right under his nose for how long? He even writes a paper about a killer, but gets it all wrong and doesn’t even see the real deal right there under his nose. Have fun explaining that to your pals down the hall.”
George stood, went for the door.
“He’s not a killer.”
George turned around. “Tell that to the Japanese.”
“You know what I mean. He’s not a killer here, in Los Angeles. The war. It’s still in him. He’s fixated on the idea that it was this great purifier, that it revealed humans for what they truly are.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Savage. Violent. He thought he had escaped that and made it back here to civilization only to run into that poor girl’s murder. And yet despite all that, he is unable to turn away from her and all that her murder represents. He keeps fighting to bring her justice even though he thinks it’s impossible because of the nature of man. Can you imagine the amount of courage such an undertaking would require? He’s the bravest man I’ve ever met, even if he refuses to think so.”
George digested all that for a moment. “What if a guy like that, with the war still in him like you said, shell-shocked or whatever it is, what if he comes back and he’s wined and dined by all these upper crust types and one night he comes up out of a nightmare thinking he’s somewhere still in the Pacific and there’s a girl asleep next to him and-”
“No.”
“And before he realizes she’s just a girl-”
“Absolutely... no. That’s not-”
“What if he’s awake but still in a nightmare and he thinks she’s a Japanese soldier and does what he has to do to survive?”
Nabozny shook his head no no no.
George leaned against the door. “What if he sees what he’s done and all the rest of it was a magic show to get everybody, including the guy exploring his mind, to think it’s all some sophisticated thing that needs to have papers written about it instead of just some guy who is still fighting a war in his head?”
George opened the door.
Nabozny from behind: “I think that you’re wrong. I hope it. But...”
“But?”
“If I’m the one that’s wrong... If you were able to acquire a warrant there... there are transcriptions of the talks we had.”
CHAPTER 39
“So why didn’t you call the police?”
It had been dead simple, really. Ida, extorted into buying a blue dress that was a knock-off of a Cristobal Balenciaga, got the phone number of the girl who had been to the dressmaker’s stall with Jane Doe. She had called, she had told the girl, Ellie McDermott, that yes, she was that famous reporter Ida Bly, and had arranged to come right on over.
The two-bedroom apartment was in Venice, cheek-and-jowl to the Venice-Del Ray oil field. They could hear the unending crank of the oil pumping rigs through the open window.
“I did.” Ellie slumped back on the patched-up sofa. She was young, early twenties, but looked exhausted, like those twenty-odd years had all been uphill. Dressed in a faded diner waitress outfit. “Three times. I even went up to City Hall but couldn’t get anyone to pay any attention to me there. It was madness. Do you know they just let reporters wander around the desks, doing whatever they want?”
Ida shifted in her seat. “I’ve heard.”
“I even called your paper. And the Times. And another one, I forget the name. Same thing. I guess they got a flood of tips. But still...”
“What was her name?”
“Myrna. Myrna Hodges. You want a picture?”
“That would be aces. Thanks.”
Ellie pushed herself up and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. Ida looked around – the apartment was small, the wallpaper peeling at a couple of seams. All of the furniture was second-hand, if that. She could tell just by looking at it that the dining area’s cheap pine table would rock if you leaned on it. There were the touches of young women though – fresh flowers in a chipped vase, cheerfully colored throw cushions on the sofa. Movie and fashion magazines were scattered across the low coffee table. Ida wondered if you ever got used to the sound of the oil rigs. Maybe they became soothing, like the ocean. She didn’t think so though.
Ellie returned, sat, passed across a glossy photograph. A head-shot. Of her.
Jane Doe.
Skid Row Sally.
The body.
Myrna.
Her dark hair was straight, over one eye. She was looking into the camera, not so much giving a come-hither look as a I dare you to come hither look. A bet that you couldn’t measure up to her. Sultry mixed with a cool intelligence at the same time. Myrna reminded Ida of Lauren Bacall.
“She was an actress?”
“Wanted to be. We both did some modelling. Now...” Ellie jerked a hand at her waitress outfit.
“Was Myrna a waitress too?”
“No. When money got thin... uh...”
“Did she do something her mamma might not be proud of?”
Ellie sat forward. “I’m not saying she was a prostitute. She was a bar-goyle.”
“A what?”
“Like gargoyle, but at a bar. One of those girls who looks good leaning against the bar...”
“Gets men to buy her drinks.”
“And meals.”
Ida snorted. “’Bar-goyle’, ha! So she was good with men, huh?”
“I guess not all of
them. But she liked them. The rich ones especially. Or, no, wait, that’s not it. She didn’t like them. She liked to be liked by them. I think it made her feel powerful somehow. She was pretty enough. And she had that extra it, you know? That something that made men go ga-ga over her.”
“You were close?”
“I thought so for a while. But then some of my jewellery went missing. Some cash from my purse. I felt like such a fool. I thought I had made a good friend. I confided in her. Told her stuff I hadn’t really ever told anyone else. Especially not in this town. I guess she had something that pulled the wool over my eyes too.”
“So back in June...”
“When it happened.”
“Yeah. Was she seeing someone special? Afraid of someone? Anything like that?”
“I don’t know. We were pretty much avoiding each other by then. And even if she told me something, I’m not sure I’d believe it.”
“She would lie to you?”
“To everyone. I figured out eventually that’s how she met all those men. Those powerful men. She’d tell them what they’d want to hear. She’d become what they wanted from a woman.”
Ida thought about it, quiet for a moment. “She definitely doesn’t sound like someone who’d be hanging out around Skid Row.”
“No chance. She despised poverty. I think maybe she grew up real poor.”
“Huh. We had it figured she was middle-class at least. Good teeth, good diet and health.”
Ellie nodded. “She was a maniac about looking like them. The upper-crust. She exercised all the time, read health magazines, chewed vitamins like candy.”
Ida pulled out her clipped picture of Bob Tree. Passed it across. “Do you know him?”
“Sure I do. Everybody does.”
“Was Myrna ever with him?”
“Oh. Bob Tree? You think... oh wow. I don’t know. At the end we weren’t talking much. I think she liked them rich but... Bob Tree, he’s so famous. And it’s not like he’s hard to look at, is he? I mean, could have been. But if so I didn’t know about it.”
Ida took the picture back. She heard sniffling. She looked up. Ellie was wiping her eyes, shaking her head at herself. A tough old broad in the making.
“Ah hell. Stupid Myrna. It was her, wasn’t it? Left like that. Those... things done to her.”
Ida shook her head. “I couldn’t say for sure. But it feels right to me.”
“Yeah.” Ellie sighed. “I’ve been putting off packing up her stuff. But I need a new roommate to help with the rent.”
“You shipping it somewhere?”
“Yeah. I found her folks’ address in Montana.”
“Can I get it from you?”
“Sure. You going to tell them? Because I don’t want to. I met them once, they seemed nice.”
“If it checks out, yeah, I’ll give them the news.”
“Jesus, what a thing to hear about your kid.” Ellie got up and went back into the bedroom to find the address.
Ida looked down at the young woman looking back up at her from the photograph.
Hello, Myrna Hodges.
CHAPTER 40
Ida met up with George at the Wilshire Boulevard Brown Derby. The joint was packed but they were both famous faces now and a place was made for them.
George loaded up – two New York Cut steak sandwiches, two glasses of milk. Ida was too jazzed, didn’t have much appetite, she asked for a Cobb salad. They took turns getting cleaned up and signing autographs. They got each other caught up, then the food arrived and Ida sat watching in awe as George taught his dinner some manners.
“Do you even taste any of that? Or does it just shoot straight down to your stomach?”
George finished his second glass of milk. “’Course I do. Just gotta fuel the engine is all.”
“You also fueled your tie.”
George held his tie out so he could see the fresh food spots he had added to the collection. “Saving ‘em for later in case I get hungry.”
“Class act.”
“Well now you know why you find me so irresistible.”
“So can you do it? Can you get a warrant for the psychiatrist? Psychologist? Which is he?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t really ever think there was a difference before now.” George shrugged. “I also don’t know if we have enough to get a judge to sign a warrant. I think I gotta ask somebody.”
“But you were worried about people in the P.D.-”
“Catching on to what we’re doing, yeah.” George drummed his fingers on the table. “Thing is though, I think I might be stalled out on the Bobby Tree end of things if I don’t get those transcripts. I can’t follow him around forever, waiting for him to slip up.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’ll take it to A.C. Pointe. Private-like.”
“You trust him?”
“He’s been like a mentor, I guess. I think maybe he was forced to give me the case in the first place, but he still thought I had brains enough to work it through.”
“I guess it turns out he was right. Here you are, working it through.”
“Ah... well.”
“Are you blushing?”
“No.”
“Oh my God, you look like a Coca-cola billboard you’re so red.”
“No.. you’re... you’re stupid.”
Ida snorted. “Wow. Tough talk copper.”
“Alright.”
“You gonna push me down in the playground next? Maybe tug on my pigtails?”
“I’d tug on all sorts of things you gave me half a chance.”
Ida rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I’m gonna call Myrna Hodges’ folks out in Montana. Give them the good news.”
“That’ll be fun.”
“Yeah, I can’t wait.”
“We still don’t know for sure that’s her. Her face... I mean what Bobby did to her... Looking at that pic you got and comparing it to the autopsy picture, I can’t be sure.”
“No, you’re right, me neither. I’ll feel them out, see if I can get some way to confirm it with them. She have any birthmarks or anything you held back? Something they could identify her with?”
“Yeah. On her upper right leg, on the back, near her backside. Pretty much round, about the size of, I don’t know, the palm of a hand.”
“The palm of your hand or the palm of a normal-sized person?”
“It ain’t the only thing that’s really big on-”
“Yeah yeah. Like you’d know how to use it.”
“I haven’t had any complaints.”
“You even know how to get a girl to where she wants to go?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I- You know how when you, you know... investigate a woman’s case file.”
“Sure.”
“I mean, let me know if I’m going too fast for you.”
“I think I can keep up.”
“Well you know the feeling when you complete an investigation.”
George looked around to make sure nobody could hear them. “Yeah.”
“So you help her complete her investigation too.”
“You lost me.”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Are you?”
They peered at each other all squinty-eyed across the table, then George broke, smiling, then laughing at the scowl that popped up on Ida’s face.
She threw her hands up in the air. “Why do I even bother?”
“Because you think I’m adorable. It’s pretty common.”
“Yeah, you say that but...”
George’s laughter trailed out. “But what?”
“You know.” Ida pointed at the scar on her face.
“Oh that. Tell you the truth I don’t even notice it anymore.”
“Like hell. How could you miss something like this? Men don’t wanna be seen out on a date with a mess like this.”
“I’m being seen with you right now.”
“Yeah, but this is
work.”
“You think all these people know that?”
Ida looked around. Eyes turned away. A lot of eyes. A lot of people had been sneaking glances over to their table.
“See? As far as any of these people know you and me, we’re not out maybe destroying the case that made us famous, we’re out on a celebrity date night.”
“My apologies.”
“Ah stop feeling sorry for yourself. That ain’t your style. And I tell you what, after we wrap this up I wanna do it official-like.”
Ida leaned back, crossed her arms. “Shouldn’t you be busy hating my guts for the morgue photo?”
“I was, right up until I saw you caring about our dead girl. You play the heartless news-hound all you want, I seen otherwise now. And working with you, you make me think that maybe I’m not a complete lunkhead. So?”
“Well...”
“Oh come on. You can’t possibly be getting any better offers. Mainly on account that there aren’t any better men than me.”
“God help us all if that’s true. Fine. Deal. Whatever.”
George held out his hand. “Shake on it.”
Ida smiled and shook, her hand being engulfed in George’s massive paw.
“Alright,” said George. “Let’s go chuck our professional careers into a garbage fire. Pay the bill, huh?”
George bolted up and walked off laughing before Ida could make her less-than-professional reply.
CHAPTER 41
Moccasin, Judith County, Montana. Home to almost nobody. Not many whites, anyway. After a lot of wrangling with telephone operators, they found out there were actually a couple of phones in the area.
Ida had them connect her. She hoped it wasn’t too late. To her surprise someone answered and, talking very slowly which drove Ida up the wall, said yes he surely did know the Hodges, they were good people. He agreed to fetch them back to the phone, might take a while, but he had an automobile which would surely speed up the time. Yes he understood that it was very important that the Hodges call her back as soon as was possible.
Ida sat at her desk in the newsroom, waiting for the return call.
She glanced over at Bob Tree’s desk, relieved that he wasn’t there, nervous about where he might be instead.
It took an hour and a half of waiting. Finally the phone rang, she grabbed it. “Yes? Hello?”