Victims

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Nothing with a question mark on the cover. I flashed my dubious consultant’s I.D. to the Sikh proprietor and described Shearling.

  He said, “No, sir, I don’t know him.”

  I gave him Milo’s card, anyway, asked him to call if Shearling showed up. “He might buy a puzzle book.”

  He smiled as if it was a perfectly reasonable request. “Certainly, sir, anything to help.”

  Good attitude, so I spent ten bucks on a glossy design magazine. Robin likes looking at dream houses.

  I tried Milo again from the car, then Petra, and when she was also out I switched to Raul Biro. His voicemail answered but I left no message.

  Was Shearling’s presence at Bijou evidence of long-term stalking, or had he happened upon the café, seen Vita torment Cerise Banforth, and decided she merited execution? If the latter, maybe he lived nearby. Reversing direction on Robertson, I gave Vita’s neighborhood another try, starting with her street.

  Stanleigh Belleveaux was outside, watering his shrubs. A For Lease sign was staked on the lawn of the duplex. Two vacant units. I drove slowly enough for Belleveaux to notice but he didn’t look up and I continued south.

  No sign of a man in a shearling and other than a young woman wheeling a baby in a stroller, all the activity was automotive: people pulling in and out of driveways. A door opened and a beanpole kid came out with a basketball, began shooting hoops.

  Everything back to normal. People need to believe in normal.

  It was close to eleven p.m. when Milo called.

  “Still on the case and so is Petra.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Or condolences. His Magnanimousness made it painfully clear I didn’t deserve it but starting from scratch ran the risk of ‘butt-fucking this one into oblivion.’ ”

  I said, “Next Christmas, he’ll be Santa at the office party.”

  He laughed. “Petra and I know the real reason he’s not shifting gears to Robbery-Homicide. Any hotshots who aren’t already on long-termers are being flown to Arizona courtesy the taxpayers for a confab on Mexican drug cartels, gonna be PowerPoint galore. What’s up?”

  I told him about John Banforth, Shearling’s presence at Bijou hours after Vita’s murder, Hedy’s description. “A nutcase with a taste for steak.”

  “Plus the way he ate—fixed on his food—smacks of an institutional background. Thirty-five to forty means that back when Quigg was working at V-State, he’d have been eleven to sixteen.”

  “A kid,” he said. “But scary enough to be transferred to Specialized Care.”

  “I’m also convinced of the thyroid angle. The waitress noticed a neck scar. So maybe a thyroid scan’s what brought him to North Hollywood Day. The most common reason for a thyroidectomy is cancer. There are also immune disorders that can justify it, like Hashimoto’s disease. Whatever the reason, he’d need to take a daily pill to regulate his metabolism. Sometimes dosages can be tricky and if he’s a street guy, he may not be getting optimal care. That could explain feeling cold and putting on a few pounds.”

  “Cancer?” he said. “Now I’m dealing with a psycho with serious sympathy issues?”

  “Thyroid cancer’s one of the most curable malignancies. He’d have the potential to live to a ripe old age.”

  “Except his chemistry’s off.”

  “Which would explain the scan. He needs his prescription renewed, would have to see a doctor at some point. A physician who picked up on his symptoms and found out he hadn’t been followed up regularly might want comprehensive data before adjusting his dosage. North Hollywood Day is an insurance mill but no doubt they see lots of Medi-Cal patients, so a referral there makes sense.”

  “He comes in to get nuked, gets on Glenda Usfel’s bad side, she boots his ass out.”

  “Wrong guy to boot.”

  “ ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, yes my client’s a bit touchy but not only is he certifiably loony, his glands are out of whack and he endured the big C.’ ”

  “Cart before the horse, Big Guy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, find him first. Before someone else gets on his bad side. So where do I go with this thyroid stuff, Alex? Call every endocrinologist in town?”

  “They’re unlikely to talk to you but the general public won’t have those compunctions. Have John Banforth sit down with Shimoff and work up a better likeness. If Banforth can’t give enough details, I’ll try to fill them in because I got a decent look at the guy. That and the scar, the coat, and the puzzle book could tweak someone’s memory. Even if he’s underground, he’s got to surface occasionally. Assuming he’s got an institutional background, I’d also check health clinics, welfare offices, halfway houses, and aftercare facilities near each of the murder sites. He paid for his meal with coins, I doubt that’s interest from a brokerage account.”

  “On the dole,” he said. “Or he panhandles. Like Eccles. Hell, maybe that’s why he did Eccles: The two of them got into a competitive thing and Shearling decided to engage in unfair business practices ... okay, I’ll get Banforth and Shimoff together. This is helpful, amigo.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “Check out newsstands, see if anyone sells a puzzle book with a question mark on the cover. The one near Vita’s scene doesn’t but there are plenty of others.”

  “There’s a big one off Hollywood Boulevard, not that far from where Lem Eccles got it. Speaking of which, Jernigan called on Eccles’s autopsy. The bruise on Eccles’s lip was from a hard blow or a kick, most likely a kick from a blunt-toed shoe. Not severe enough to be lethal but it could’ve stunned him. Other than that, the details are like the others. Eccles’s son’s trip to L.A. is tomorrow. Want to be there?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  Lemuel Eccles Jr., aka “Lee,” was thirty-eight and rock-jawed, with meaty shoulders, blue eyes that tended to wander, and longish light brown hair lightened to blond at the tips.

  Your basic aging surfer. This one sported a manicure, a two-thousand-dollar charcoal chalk-stripe suit, a purple Hermès tie, a canary-and-violet pocket square.

  His card said he was an attorney specializing in real estate.

  Milo said, “Leases and mortgages?”

  Eccles said, “Used to be, now it’s evictions and foreclosures. Basically I’m a vulture.” His smile was practiced and pretty, but lacked staying power. We’d been in the interview room for less than a minute. Eccles had spent most of that time sneaking glances at Petra Connor.

  Easy to see why, especially given the competition. Her lips had moistened since yesterday, her eyes were clear, her skin tone had warmed. She wore a simple gold chain and diamond-chip ear-studs. The drape of her black pantsuit was even better than that of Lee Eccles’s suit.

  The first few times she caught Eccles checking her out, she pretended not to notice. Finally, she smiled at him and edged closer.

  She’s in a committed relationship with a former detective named Eric Stahl, but you use what you have.

  Milo sniffed the chemistry early on and let her take the interview.

  “Lee,” she said, as if savoring the word, “we’re so sorry about your dad.”

  “Thanks. Appreciate it.” Eccles loosened a jacket button. “I guess I shouldn’t be totally surprised because he led what you guys would call a high-risk life. But still ...”

  “You can never be prepared for something like this, Lee.”

  Eccles’s eyes filmed a bit. A tissue box sat nearby. Petra didn’t offer it. No sense highlighting vulnerability.

  Eccles used his pocket square to swipe quickly, took the time to refold and put the handkerchief back with four points showing. “What exactly happened?”

  Petra said, “Your dad was murdered and we’re determined to catch the bad guy. Anything you can tell us will be a big help.”

  “The first thing you need to know,” said Eccles, “is he was crazy. I mean that literally. Paranoid schizophrenic, he was diagnosed years ago, not long after
I was born. He and my mom divorced when I was four and I rarely saw him. After I got out of law school, he found me somehow and dropped in at my office. I was foolish enough to bring him home. It didn’t take long for things to get hairy. Right from the beginning he scared Tracy—my wife. He ended up scaring me, too.”

  “In what way, Lee?”

  “He wasn’t actually violent but the threat of violence always seemed to hover around him and in a sense that was even worse. The look in his eyes, the way he’d suddenly go silent in the midst of a conversation. Then one time, we let him sleep over and he punched holes in the wall. Woke us up in the middle of the night, we were terrified. When I went in to see what was wrong, he was sitting on the floor, huddled in a corner, claimed he’d fended off an intruder. But the alarm was still on, no one had gotten in. I finally calmed him down and left. Later, I heard him crying in bed.”

  “What an ordeal,” said Petra.

  “I learned that it kicked in when he drank. Problem is, that was often. Eventually, Tracy and I agreed: No more visits, we really needed to cut him off. The next time he showed up we told him and he got pissed off and cussed us out. I offered to rent him a motel for as long as he needed and we could still see each other during the day. That pissed him off even more, he stormed off. A few weeks later he showed up and tried to force himself inside the house—pushed the door as I held it. That’s when I decided to have him committed. I tried three separate times. For his sake as much as for ours, he needed to be cared for in a supervised setting, not drift around on the street. Each time I showed up in court, some do-gooder Legal Aid type was there to block me. Some asshole who’d never met him but claimed to be defending his rights. Apparently they scan the dockets and even when someone’s only requesting a seventy-two-hour hold, they come to make trouble.”

  “Oh, man,” said Petra.

  Lee Eccles said, “I’m talking publicly funded wienies who know all the angles and brain-dead judges they probably take out to lunch. I’m an attorney and I still couldn’t get it done. After the third time, I talked to a buddy who does health law and he said don’t waste your time and money, until he actually assaults—which means drawing blood—or makes a suicide attempt, it’s not going to happen. Even then, all they’re going to do is warehouse him for a couple of days and turn him loose.”

  “Not enough imminent danger,” said Petra.

  “What a crock. The mere fact he was living on the street put him in imminent danger. Obviously.” His strong jaw shifted to the side. Settled back in place. “You know what I’d like to do? Haul one of those wienies over to the morgue and show them what their meddling accomplished.”

  He tugged at his tie knot. “Do you have any idea who did this to him?”

  Him. He. No Dad, Pops, Father, the Old Man.

  “Unfortunately not yet, Lee. Do you?”

  “I wish. Where was he killed?”

  “In an alley near Hollywood and Western.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” said Eccles. “That’s right where I dropped him off when I bailed him out of jail.”

  “When was that, Lee?”

  “About a month ago, he’d gotten busted for pushing someone while panhandling. He used his call to beg me to get him out. I figured he’d get out anyway, be pissed if I didn’t help him so I paid the bail and picked him up and dropped him where he wanted to be dropped. Where he instructed me to drop him. Like I’m his limo driver. So that’s where it happened?”

  Petra said, “Did you observe where he went after you dropped him off?”

  “No, I just booked out of there as fast as I could.”

  “Did you notice him making any contact with someone?”

  “No. But something just occurred to me, it’s probably psychotic delusion but I might as well tell you. On the ride from the jail he got on one of his rants about some guy hassling him, he was scared. Then he got all paranoid with me, I was a goddamn lawyer, lawyers ran the system, why couldn’t I help him? I said if he was scared I could find him somewhere to stay. He went ballistic, accused me of wanting to lock him up in some ‘loony bin’ and throw away the key, I was like all lawyers, a scumbag. I said, ‘You’re the one complaining someone’s after you, I’m just trying to help.’ That made him clam up, ignore me totally. When I reached where he wanted, he said, ‘Stop here,’ and he got out, didn’t bother to look back.”

  Petra said, “Who’d he say was he scared of?”

  “Trust me, it was delusional. An old delusion.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This guy he complained about didn’t exist. He’s been bitching about it my whole life. According to my mother since he actually was locked up in a mental hospital.”

  “Where’s that?” said Petra.

  “A place that no longer exists,” said Lee Eccles. “Ventura State Hospital, he got committed for an indefinite term but was out in pretty short time according to my mother. Back then it was easier to commit someone, a judge put him in after he busted some guy’s jaw in a bar, got on the stand and claimed the guy was implanting radio speakers in his head.”

  “How long ago was this, Lee?”

  “Let’s see, I was thirteen ... no, fourteen, I was playing baseball, which means I was in high school. So twenty-three years ago. I remember the baseball part because I was always worried he’d show up at a game and embarrass me.”

  “So what’s the old delusion?”

  “While he was locked up, one of the guards supposedly killed his wife. Not my mother, not even a real wife, some woman he’d been living with, a barfly like him.”

  “Where was he living before he was committed?”

  “Oxnard. We were in Santa Monica, which sounds far enough but the things Mom told me, I was always worried he’d show up. So was she, she moved us down to O.C., trying to put some distance between us.”

  “This woman who was allegedly murdered,” said Petra. “Did your mom mention her name?”

  “I think Mom said Rosetta. Or Rosita, I don’t know. But don’t waste your time, Detective. The story was insane. Like a guard could poison someone? Or want to? I’m not sure the woman even existed. Or if she did, that what happened to her is what he told Mom.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Rosita comes to visit him, leaves, drops dead in the parking lot. He knows this guard did it to get back at him. Why I can’t tell you. Anyway, now it’s the same person who’s bothering him in Hollywood and I’m supposed to do something about it because I’m a lawyer.”

  “This imaginary person has a name.”

  “Petty,” he said. “Or maybe it was Pitty. My father was originally from Oklahoma, had a twang that got worse when he was agitated. His story was the guy’s popping up on the street, following him, giving him quote unquote X-ray eyes. It was a ridiculous story all those years ago and didn’t get better in the retelling but I figure you should know everything.”

  “Appreciate it, Lee,” said Petra. “Would you mind if we talked to your mother? Just to fill in details?”

  “I’d love if you’d talk to her because that would mean she’s alive. Unfortunately, Parkinson’s disease had other ideas.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I, Detective. They say you don’t grow up until you lose your parents. Frankly, I’d prefer to be immature.”

  Petra’s mother had died giving birth to her. Her father had succumbed a few years back. She said, “I’ve heard that.”

  Eccles stood, checked the folds of his hankie.

  “I guess,” he said, “I’m responsible for the body.”

  A uniformed officer saw Lee Eccles out.

  Petra said, “He has no idea what he just gave us. Marlon Quigg worked at that hospital at the same time Lem Eccles was committed there. Looks like you were right about some sort of ancient history, Alex.”

  I said, “Maybe for those two but I can’t see Vita and Glenda Usfel connected to V-State that long ago. Usfel was a young child and Vita grew up in Chicago.”

 
“Fine,” said Milo. “So their problems with Mr. Shearling were more recent, he’s an equal-opportunity disemboweler.”

  Petra said, “Eccles Junior is one angry man, that boy did not like his daddy. Can’t say that I blame him but he’s lucky Daddy’s murder is part of a serial because if I picked it up as a one-shot I’d be looking at him as my prime. And if Eccles alienated his own offspring that thoroughly, imagine what he could evoke in a homicidal maniac. Especially if the two of them went way back to V-State.”

  Milo said, “Mr. Crazy, meet Mr. Curious. Where do we go with this Pitty-Patty-Petty dude? If any of it’s true, we’ve got complications because Shearling’s too young to have worked as a guard twenty-three years ago.”

  I said, “The story could be partially true. Eccles knew someone named Pitty years ago, convinced himself the guy was after him. He notices someone stalking him and resurrects his old personal bogeyman.”

  “You believe the stalking part?” said Petra.

  “Eccles was murdered.”

  Milo said, “The bumper sticker.”

  “What?”

  “Even paranoids have enemies.”

  She laughed.

  Milo said, “Even if Pitty did exist, Alex is probably right and he’s irrelevant. Eccles was schizo, had a fixation, flashed back to it. Or Pitty’s a squid in a three-piece suit or some other figment. In any event, we’ve got multiple sightings of Shearling.”

  Petra said, “If Shearling was a patient at V-State, we might be able to find some known associates, family, anything that could lead us to him. Any word back from that psychiatrist, Alex?”

  “No.”

  Milo said, “Got his address just before Eccles Junior showed up. Social Security records, don’t ask.”

  She said, “Excellent. Let’s pay him a visit, Big Guy.”

  “I don’t know. He’s under no obligation to let us past the door let alone cough up patient info. We get heavy-handed, he invokes the doctor confidentiality thing. So my vote’s for having Alex try first, shrink-to-shrink.”

  Petra looked at me.

  I said, “He could refuse me, too, but sure.”