“Is that Steven coming down the stairs, Brad? Is he in the hall?”
Brad said nothing but he was turned toward the stairs and looking up. Lorraine slowly walked out from the drawing room, her heart was banging in her chest. She made sure Brad was slightly in front of her but not blocking her view of Janklow in any way.
Steven Janklow was midway down the stairs. He was wearing light blue slacks, a blue-and-white-striped cotton shirt, and velvet embroidered bedroom slippers. Seen from below, he appeared taller, more threatening. His lips were clenched together, his eyes were very pale behind his gold, rimless glasses. Slowly, stair by stair, he came down, lower and lower, until he stood on the bottom stair, never taking his eyes off her. It was unnerving, the silence, and also because his left hand was held behind his back.
“Hi, you remember me, don’t you, Steve? You said you needed to be sucked off in a public place, twenty dollars. We drove to the Glendale shopping mall. Sure you remember. Look at him, Brad, he remembers me. Maybe it’s my scar.”
Janklow’s face twisted in rage. “I don’t know you. Throw her out of here, Brad.”
Lorraine remained where she was. She felt safer with Brad between her and Janklow. “Fine, Brad, you throw me out, but first fill him in, tell him what the deal is. If you don’t have the cash, then I’ll take a couple of items belonging to your mother. Art Mathews said he was getting good prices for the stuff in Europe.” Janklow looked as if he would attack her, spittle collected at the corners of his mouth, but Brad stepped right in front of him.
“Just calm down, Steven. Have you ever seen her before?”
“No, I don’t know the bitch, and don’t you tell me to calm down.”
Brad looked to Lorraine. “Go and sit down, let me talk to him.” Lorraine backed into the drawing room as Brad moved closer to his brother. She was out of sight of both of them for a second and managed to whisper into the microphone that she was in the drawing room.
Lorraine had to hold on to the piano top, her legs were shaking so much. She could hear Janklow still in the hall with Brad, insisting that he did not know her, that she was lying. Suddenly furious instead of afraid, she stormed out and confronted both men. “I’m lying, am I? Right, you’ll see, and I’ll see you in court.”
She strode into the kitchen and picked up her bag. She was about to walk past them to the front door, when she heard Brad’s low voice, “Give that to me! Give it here.”
She turned around just in time to see Janklow with the gun, but he hadn’t even gotten it to waist level before Brad had taken it from him. Then he sank onto the bottom stair. Brad slipped the weapon into his pocket. He spoke softly to Lorraine.
“You’ll get your money as soon as I can arrange it.”
“Well, what about the jewelry? Don’t you have any left? Art seemed to think you had more’n the Queen of England.”
Janklow’s head was in his hands, but he said, “He was a thieving piece of shit.”
Lorraine sniggered. “Yeah, no doubt about that, but you got no worries about him talking.” She was on firmer ground now, testing how much she could say. “They had him arrested for the murders, didn’t you know? Apparently he even admitted to a couple, then he got scared and killed himself—cut his wrists on his glasses.”
Janklow looked at her with his pale, expressionless eyes. Lorraine held his gaze. “You shouldn’t have hurt Didi, though. She was a friend of mine. I know she was into the blackmail with Art, but he forced her to do it.”
Janklow looked up at his brother. “There’s nothing left, Brad. I’ve got no money—I can’t pay her.”
“What about your mother? She’s sitting on a load, isn’t she? How would you think she’d feel if I paid her a visit? It’s all the same to me. Look, I don’t want to walk away empty-handed. If Art and Didi cleaned you out, then why not—”
“You don’t go anywhere near my mother.” Janklow’s temper surfaced.
“Then I’ll just walk out of here. But I warned your brother—you ask him—I’m not gonna let you off. I’ll sell my story to the papers and then she’ll wish she could get up and run because they won’t leave her alone. They’ll dig up every inch of dirt on her, on this family—”
Janklow shoved Brad away and dived at Lorraine, but again Brad caught him before he managed to reach her. He pushed him up against the wall. “Tell me the truth, Steven. Was it you who attacked her?”
He screamed and tried to wriggle out of his brother’s grasp, but Brad thumped him in the stomach so hard he buckled over. Then Brad yanked him up against the wall by his hair. “You’d better tell me, Steven, because if what she says is true, then we’ve got to pay her off.”
She eased around to a better position, still making sure Brad was between her and Janklow. “He attacked me and he murdered the others. He did it, Brad! Ask him. Go on, ask him!”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” screamed Janklow.
Brad released his hold but was still too close for his brother, who was gasping for breath, to try anything on her. Brad looked at Lorraine, then at Janklow. “Okay, we’ll pay. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”
Janklow pulled at Brad’s arm. “You fool, you pay her and she’ll be back like that other bitch. They’ll never leave you alone. You let her walk out of here and she’ll be on your back like a leech. She’s a leech, a bloodsucker.”
“What you gonna do, Steven? Kill me like the others?”
Lorraine spat it out and Janklow tried again to reach her. Again Brad dragged him back, shoving him hard against the wall. He was frothing at the mouth with impotent fury, but Brad was too strong for him to escape. “They deserved it! And even if he’s stupid enough to pay you off, I’ll find you, wherever you are, no matter how long it takes. I’ll bite out your eyes, claw them out with my hands, I’ll never let you go, never. Never.”
She pointed at Janklow and then back at Brad. “You did hear that, didn’t you? You’re gettin’ off real light. He’s killed eight women and all I’m doing is asking for a million dollars. I could push for a lot more.”
Brad looked first at her, then at his brother as the implication sank in. His face was drained. Janklow was beginning to lose his anger and his mouth twisted like a child’s. “Ah, no, don’t let them take me, Brad, please, you’ll take care of me? Brad, Brad, don’t look at me like that!”
He began to sob, sliding down the wall, until he curled up, blubbering, his face in his hands. Brad bent down to him and Steven must have thought he was going to hug him, because he lifted his arms up to him. But Brad hauled him roughly to his feet by his shirt. “Is this true, Steven?” Brad shook him so hard his head cracked against the wall. “Is it true?” He gripped his brother’s face in his hands. “Is it true?”
Deflated, Janklow was half pleading with Brad to hold him, not to hurt him anymore. He started crying again, his wet lips hanging open as he sobbed. But he did not deny it, he seemed only to want Brad to hold him.
“I’m taking him upstairs to his room. You stay down here.”
Lorraine watched as Brad half carried, half dragged his brother upstairs. He sounded like a little boy, begging Brad not to smack him anymore. He had become pathetic, begging his brother to be nice, not to hurt him. She wondered how many of the wretched women he had hammered to death begged in the same way, like poor little Holly. “Brad,” she said flatly. Halfway up the stairs, he stopped. “You’d better stay with him. Will you put the gun down that you took from him?”
They both looked toward her, as different as Dilly Fellows had said. It was impossible to believe they were brothers. Brad took the gun out of his pocket and for a split second she thought he was going to fire it straight into her head, but she said calmly, matter-of-factly, “I’m wired up, Brad. Every word we’ve said has been recorded. Just put down the gun.”
He leaned down and carefully placed it on a step and the two of them continued up the stairs. When she heard the bedroom door close she went to the intercom in the hallway and said they should come in
and that he was in the top right-hand front bedroom. She pressed open the gates and went to wait on the porch. The truck was just pulling up outside. Rooney was first out and gave her a thumbs-up. Next out was Bickerstaff. Lorraine had turned away to look over the beautiful gardens, the flowers, the swimming pool, the tennis courts. It was so perfect, so incongruously peaceful. The sound of squad cars arriving cut through the silence. Lorraine joined Rooney. She removed the tiny microphone and asked if she could go home. She was told by Bickerstaff that she must return to the station.
Brad Thorburn was led out between two uniformed police officers followed by Steven Janklow handcuffed between another two. Janklow began to sob out a wretched, sickening confession inside the vehicle, and, two hours after he was arrested, admitted to five murders, but seemed vague about Holly and Didi, and one of the as yet unidentified victims. Two remained unidentified because Janklow didn’t know their names but agreed when shown the photographs that he had killed them. He said one was called Ellen and the other something like Susanna, but he hadn’t known their last names, of course. He was dismissive and arrogant. Looking over the horrific photographs he had shrugged and said bitterly that he had not done anything to any nice women.
“Bitches, you know, they were just whores, dregs of unwashed humanity.”
Lorraine did not get home until late that night. Rosie was waiting expectantly to hear all that had happened. She gave her friend a bear hug and was disappointed when Lorraine didn’t want to go out for a celebration dinner.
“But it’s all over, isn’t it?”
Lorraine sighed, exhausted. “Yes, I guess it is, but I don’t feel like celebrating.”
The next few days were long and drawn out. She was asked to be on call should they require her at the station. Something nagged at her but she couldn’t figure out what. In the end she put it down to the possibility that she still might be used as a prosecution witness.
The good news came at the beginning of the following week. Janklow would plead guilty, which meant Lorraine would not have to take the stand, to seven counts of murder.
A month after his brother’s arrest, Brad Thorburn left Los Angeles to escape media attention, but remained in touch with his brother via their lawyer. Lorraine followed the progress of the case through Rooney, or by dropping by the station. Money was tight, and Rosie kept up her daily check of want ads, but their financial situation made the prospect of starting up their own agency a moot point.
Rooney was the one to tell Lorraine that her theory had been wrong, although so had everyone else’s. Further interviews with Steven Janklow elicited that he had been blackmailed by Art Mathews for much longer than they had thought—almost nine years—but he had only met Art once. Didi had made the calls and collected the money and the jewelry. Janklow had always liked Didi, he said, because she fixed his wigs and makeup. The other women had been murdered because they were like his father’s whores, dirty hookers he had brought home to flaunt in front of Janklow’s beloved mother. There was no blackmail link to the dead women, only Didi. Norman Hastings had been killed because, as he was being blackmailed himself, he felt that he and Janklow could help each other out, even go to the police to press charges. Janklow had not wanted anyone to know about his private life; he was disgusted that a fat, middle-aged man like Norman Hastings could ever think that they were alike, so he killed him. When pressed for further details on the murder of Angela “Holly” Hollow and David “Didi” Burrows, he said that he couldn’t remember and he supposed he must have killed them.
Janklow also admitted attacking Lorraine, again saying that she was just like his father’s whores and he had been right to attack her as she was now his brother’s whore. His obsessive love for his mother had so twisted him that half the time he believed that he was her, and, when he eventually admitted everything he had done, did not hold it against her that she had not come to see him.
To his surprise Rooney was called in to see Chief Berillo and given a big bonus; contributions from all the officers had paid for a gold travel clock and leather case. He hated the thought of retirement, but his part in tracking down Janklow had made good press coverage, and he grudgingly thanked Lorraine but then said that if truth be told she should thank him.
Lorraine’s part in Janklow’s arrest was not leaked to the press. The only thing she got out of it was the few bucks from Rooney, the clean driver’s license, and the new clothes. She had to hand back Rooney’s gun because he had to return it with his badge. She and Rosie were flat broke.
“The bastards! Don’t you get a reward?”
Lorraine laughed. “No! But I got my self-respect, Rosie.”
“Well, it ain’t gonna pay the rent, sweet face, so now what do you do?”
She was looking good, she knew it; she was back in form and she knew that, too. Working again had filled in her days, her nights, and yet somehow she wanted or expected more. She studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror: so much for respect. If they really thought she was something, how come they didn’t offer her a job? How come, at the end, she was still broke, and worse, back at square one? She gripped the basin and bowed her head.
“Tea’s ready,” Rosie yelled out.
Lorraine looked up at herself; it wasn’t over, she hadn’t beaten it. “Jesus Christ, I want a drink.”
Rosie cut a thick slice of banana bread and poured tea for each of them. “It’s homemade—got it at the deli near the corner.” Lorraine choked suddenly. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?” Rosie watched as she grabbed the file from the Janklow case and began to thumb through it. Half an hour later she looked up. “I got to go out. If you want something to do can you find out who we contact to rent that place Art Mathews had as a gallery, and how much? I’m gonna see if I can raise some dough, then we’ll open up Page Investigation Services. I’ll be back or I’ll call in, okay?”
Rosie followed her onto the steps outside the apartment. “Where are you going?”
Lorraine ran down the stairs, turning at the bottom to look back at Rosie. She waved and called back something about the banana bread, then she formed her right hand into the shape of a gun, and pretended to fire it. Rosie went back inside and glanced at the papers, wondering what Lorraine had been so excited about. The file was open to Didi’s autopsy report. Rosie grimaced in distaste and went back to her bread. It didn’t taste so good. The pathologist’s findings stated that David Burrows’s last meal had been banana bread.
19
Ed Bickerstaff had been in a heavy meeting all morning discussing Janklow’s mental deterioration. His family, via their lawyers, was insisting he be declared insane and therefore incapable of standing trial.
Bickerstaff had spent many hours with Janklow since his arrest in mid-August, during which he talked compulsively, almost with pride, about what he had done. He showed no guilt or remorse, but the reverse; he gloated in detailing how the women had died. He was still sketchy when it came to Didi and Holly, but was adamant that he had killed them. He was constantly smiling, always polite and cheerful, and continued to talk freely, even when he was alone in his cell.
It was now the second week of September. The last meeting Bickerstaff had had with Janklow had been two days earlier. Janklow’s head was bruised from self-inflicted injuries and he was wearing a white gown with ties at the back, having just been for a brain scan. He sat on the bed dangling his feet, and midway through the interview he started to sing some long-forgotten song. He could only remember the chorus, and repeated the same words over and over. “If you say you love me, do you care? If you say you love me, do you care?”
When Bickerstaff was told that Lorraine Page was asking for him, he agreed to see her. He hadn’t liked the way she’d been hanging around the station, so he intended on making this meeting short and sweet. She was ushered into his office—Rooney’s old one. He got up as she entered and shook hands. She was still looking good and had gained a little weight—not fat weight, but working out and training
now on a regular basis had gotten her body toned up and really back in shape.
“Is he insane, then?” she asked without any preamble.
“Well, they’re certainly trying to prove it.”
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Well, he may be putting up one hell of a performance, who can tell? I don’t know.”
Bickerstaff rested his chin in his hands. “That was one hell of a performance you gave at his place. Class act, but then Rooney said you were good. What he never said was just how good. You mind if I ask you something personal?”
“Go ahead.”
“That shooting incident—the one with the kid—how come you fired six times when you could have brought him down with one shot?”
She hadn’t expected him to bring up the shooting and it caught her off guard. “I’d had a few drinks. I didn’t see the boy, just his jacket. It had this yellow stripe down the back.… I had a partner I was fond of. He was in a shootout. The man that killed him had a black sweater with a yellow stripe and I didn’t see the boy—it wasn’t him I was firing at but somebody else.”
He stood up and, just as Rooney used to do, flicked at the blind. “I’m sorry, Ms. Page, but I should really be getting back to work unless there was another reason for your visit?”
Lorraine reminded him about the investigation agency. She caught him looking at his watch and knew he wanted her to leave. The Bickerstaffs of this world may remark on how good an officer she had been but they also would never have any tolerance or forgiveness for a checkered past. “And yeah, there is another reason I’m here beyond the fact I need money: I’m broke.”
He frowned. She lit a cigarette and kept it between her lips as she spoke. “I don’t think Janklow murdered David Burrows or Holly.”
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