John Sharp more or less forgot about Ben until later that evening when he bumped into the landlady in the hall. Dorothea promptly told him that Ben needed sobering up. "I'm going to take him upstairs," she announced, "and make him feel better."
Well, perhaps this particular bender had been going on a bit too long. Maybe Dorothea thought that, after three or four days of pathetic drunkenness, Ben was getting out of hand. But after that, Sharp noticed, he didn't hear or see Ben Fink around anymore. The room next door was dead still.
About four days later, John Sharp climbed the back stairs to use the telephone, and when he walked past the spare bedroom by the kitchen, he was hit by a distinct and terrible odor. He recoiled, his nose sniffing at a memory. Years before, he'd worked in a mortuary; he knew the awful stench of death.
Ben Fink's disappearance struck him with new clarity.
For hours afterward, Sharp puzzled over what he should do. Should he confront Dorothea? Should he contact the authorities? But what if he were wrong? He could imagine how angry Dorothea would be, and he sure didn't want to end up back on the street….
Dorothea Puente was soon fretting about the smell herself, telling John Sharp that the sewer had backed up, complaining that she didn't know how to get the smell out of the house. "It has ruined the carpet," she said. "I just don't know what to do."
Soon a noisy machine was rumbling back and forth, back and forth, above the heads of the downstairs tenants. The landlady had resorted to the obvious solution and rented a rug shampooer. But apparently even repeated shampooing proved futile, for it seemed to John Sharp that Dorothea must have shampooed that carpet at least a dozen times. Finally, she had workers tear the carpet out.
Then she called Patty Casey, the cab driver, and went shopping. On the way, Dorothea explained that she had to get new carpeting for one room in the house that "had a curse."
By late May Puente's next-door neighbor, Will Mclntyre, was also grumbling loudly about the stench permeating the neighborhood. The tenants in his three apartments were complaining, he said. It got so bad that he couldn't even use his air conditioner because "it would suck the smell in, and you would have to go outside to get away from it."
When Mclntyre confronted Mrs. Puente about the stink, she just clucked and agreed, "It sure is bad. I think it's coming from that duplex out behind my house." Seemed like it must be the sewer, she said.
By then Mclntyre had called public health officials to complain about the foul smell, and on June 1 they sent out an inspector, who couldn't find the source of the dreadful odor.
Weeks passed, the smell diminished, and Dorothea Puente continued to work early every morning in her garden. The plants and flowers flourished under the encouragement of her green thumb, and she was rightfully proud of the results. She even walked Ricardo Ordorica around the grounds as if she were the owner and he the guest, pointing out this or that improvement—the gazebo, the new flower bed, the rosebushes, the walkway—telling him how much she'd increased the value of his property.
Ben Fink wasn't the sort of man that many people would miss or come looking for, but Peggy Nickerson, the street counselor who had placed him at Puente's, later stopped by asking about him. Dorothea told her that he'd left. And Nickerson, who was used to dealing with transients who come and go without notice, didn't find this too peculiar.
Sometime later, John Sharp thought he saw a man on the street who looked like Ben, and he mentioned this to Dorothea.
"No, that can't be," she told him. "Ben has gone up north."
CHAPTER 6
As soon as Mary Ellen Howard came into view, Judy could sense tension. Her friend usually greeted everyone with a refreshing openness, but this time she wore gravity stamped across her brow. Polly Spring, who Judy knew less well, also seemed somber.
Judy and Beth had worked peripherally with the veteran social workers, Polly Spring at Adult Protective Services and Mary Ellen at the welfare department. Usually clients brought them together; this request for a meeting seemed unusual. Judy's worried colleagues had called shortly after Will Mclntyre started complaining about the stench wafting past his residence. They said they wanted to meet with the two VOA partners, and rather than discuss it on the phone, they wanted to talk in person.
With few preliminaries, Mary Ellen launched into an explanation of what had brought them here, and Judy and Beth listened, dumbfounded, to her confusing tale: A client, who wasn't really her client, had been temporarily placed at Dorothea Puente's boardinghouse. Dorothea had kicked him out—for no reason, he'd said; for good reason, she'd said—and now he was living someplace else. Anyway (though it wasn't technically her responsibility), Mary Ellen Howard had called the proprietor—Dorothea, she'd said her name was—to try to work things out. But Dorothea had unleashed an abusive tirade, then hung up.
The incident had set her thinking, Mary Ellen said, about another landlady by the name of Dorothea whom she'd known of years before. Her memory wasn't clear, but she was so disturbed by the idea that this might be the same person that she'd done some checking. She'd called Polly Spring, then Mildred Ballenger, another former co-worker from Adult Protective Services. Ballenger was now retired, Mary Ellen said, but it was she who'd alerted authorities to Dorothea Johansson and had her sent to prison in the early eighties for victimizing elderly tenants.
Judy and Beth stared at Mary Ellen, flabbergasted.
What was she talking about? Was she suggesting that softhearted Dorothea Puente—caretaker of stray cats and unwanted souls—could be this awful Johansson character? It seemed ludicrous!
Much as she liked and respected Mary Ellen, Judy just couldn't fathom what she was getting at. She cleared her throat and ventured diplomatically, "Well, this really doesn't sound at all like Dorothea Puente, you know. Um, what did Johansson look like?"
Mary Ellen Howard and Polly Spring glanced at each other and gave it their best. When they'd finished, it was hard to imagine anyone lesslike Dorothea Puente than the woman they described: over two hundred pounds, given to wearing muumuus, dark hair piled atop her head. This Johansson woman hardly resembled small, snowy-haired Dorothea Puente.
"And, well, about how old would she be?" Judy asked.
Howard and Spring figured that Johansson would be in her late fifties.
"Then she can't be Dorothea Puente," Judy said, shaking her head. "She's at least seventy!"
The two veteran social workers persisted. They still believed that Puente could be Dorothea Johansson. And, they insisted, the woman was dangerous. She'd been convicted of some sort of crime, she’d been in prison. Mary Ellen Howard went on to explain that Sacramento magazine had even done an article about how Mildred Ballenger had put a stop to Johansson's evil deeds.
"I'd like to read that," Judy said, and Mary Ellen volunteered to get them a copy.
Still, Judy and Beth remained skeptical. How could Puente and Johansson be one and the same? Dorothea Puente's tenants thought the world of her. Some even said her boardinghouse was the best place they'd ever stayed. And Dorothea's results with Bert were so remarkable, so unequivocally positive, that Judy and Beth could only believe that Polly Spring and Mary Ellen Howard were sadly confused.
Judy shrugged. "This just doesn't mesh with our personal observations."
"That's right," Beth concurred. "It's amazing how well Bert Montoya has been doing since he moved there. He's improved in every way because Dorothea is such a good care provider."
"Well, if I were you," Spring advised in her throaty voice, "I wouldn't want my client staying in that woman's house."
"So where would you suggest Bert stay instead?" Judy wanted to know.
Spring replied, "The Gate House," [fictitious name], referring to a local room-and-board operation.
This hit a sour note with Judy and Beth. The manager of this establishment had neglected one tenant to the point of abuse, compelling them to file a report with Sacramento's ombudsman for senior care. They could hardly imagine a worse placement
for Bert.
They were polite enough to stifle a scoff, but given their firsthand experiences, the VOA partners just couldn't take Spring and Howard's suspicions seriously. Still, since their colleagues were so obviously concerned, they promised not to place any more clients in Puente's boardinghouse and to ask Dorothea a few questions.
But Spring and Howard weren't about to stop with just one conversation with a couple of VOA employees. They were so profoundly distressed by the idea that Dorothea Johansson might be on the loose again that they decided to push the limits of their respective bureaucracies. And for an unlucky few, the unfolding dance of accusation and acquiescence played out like a Kafkaesque plot.
By chance, Polly Spring shortly learned that Peggy Nickerson was also making placements at Dorothea Puente's boardinghouse. "She's crazy as a hoot!" she exclaimed to Nickerson. "I remember something about her being in trouble with the law. If I were you, I'd avoid Puente in the future."
Nickerson, who didn't have the highest opinion of Polly Spring to begin with, reacted with incredulity. She'd never heard a single word of complaint against Dorothea Puente. Hadn't Dorothea been terrific with all of her clients? In Nickerson's mind, she was "the best the system had to offer."
But Spring was tenacious; she recounted some of what she knew of Puente's history, believing she was imparting a "warning" to Peggy Nickerson.
Again, these allegations were so contrary to Nickerson's personal experience that she, like Judy Moise and Beth Valentine, simply couldn't swallow them.
Having her suspicions meet only with skepticism put Polly Spring in an exasperated funk. Finally, she was moved to send a memo to her supervisor, Phil Goldvarg:
Re: Dorothea Johansen [sic] AKA: Dorothea Puente
Date: June 9, 1988
Ms. Puente has surfaced again in the community, furnishing housing and tender-loving, but street-wise, care to vulnerable clients. She is used by Case Management Services and by Peggy Nickerson of the Elderly Homeless program.
Since neither referring agency is aware of Ms. Puente's history, each is enthusiastic about her not requiring money up front and running a good unlicensed facility. Ms. Puente, as this department is aware, poses some dangers to helpless clients, however, and I wonder what our responsibility is.
I knew Dorothea as Ms. Johansen [sic] in the '60s and the '70s, located at 21st It F St. Her facility was ultimately closed and she was sent to prison then for misusing clients' funds.
Subsequently, there was an allegation (later proved I think) of homicide against the lady, involving an elderly client. I don't know how to document this part of Ms Johansen's [sic] history, except to ask Blanche Blizzard and Mildred Ballenger, who were instrumental in the case
Informally, Judy Mollice [sic] of Case Management Services and Peggy Nickerson have been apprised of Ms Johansen's [sic] history as far as I remember it.
Is anything more required?
When Goldvarg attempted to act on this memo he was hampered by simple errors, but he shortly spoke with his supervisor, Fran Alberghini, who then relayed these concerns to her supervisor, Charlene Silva. The upshot of their discussion was that they should do two things: First, report Puente to Community Care Licensing; and second, ask county counsel whether they could legally share their suspicions about Puente with other agencies.
Good intentions, lousy follow-through.
Community Care Licensing sent a representative to check out Puente's establishment. For half an hour, she "toured" the upstairs quarters while Puente poured on her old-fashioned charm. Dorothea maintained that she didn't run a board-and-care facility, that she didn't really even have tenants. The downstairs residences, she said, were "separate and unconnected."
Before departing, the gullible representative asked Mrs. Puente to sign a licensing report indicating that complaints against the establishment were unsubstantiated and that no deficiencies were cited. With that, she handed Puente a copy of the report and bid good-bye.
To conclude her investigation, the representative phoned Peggy Nickerson about placements made to Puente's home. Afterward, she filled out a form, which read, in part:
Kmckerson [sic] stated approx 2 years ago Dorothea called her to offer her home as temporary shelter. A little less than once a month, Dorothea takes people in who have run out of money. They stay for 1 to 5 days. Dorothea provides food and shelter for free. The people she takes in are independent but have just run out of money.
Later that day, the representative phoned Goldvarg to report that Puente was not operating the type of facility that required licensing and that everything was "okay."
Step one was completed. As step two, Alberghini spoke with Deputy County Counsel Michelle Bach.
One of the county counsel's functions is to protect county agencies from litigation. Less politely, this job function might be summed up by those three inglorious little words: Cover your ass.
Bach asked, "Do you have any facts? Any indications that Dorothea Puente is doing something that she shouldn't be doing?"
No, actually, they didn't.
"Do you have a client staying at Puente's home?"
They did not.
No facts, no indications of abuse, and no client. Bach's advice was to avoid any appearance of being alarmist. Rather than risk infringing on Puente's rights, it would be better to keep mum. All in all, Polly Spring's memo had ignited a chain reaction like a lit string of firecrackers: much noise but little damage.
Mary Ellen Howard got similarly cautious advice when she approached Deputy Sharon Cadigan, stationed at the Department of Social Services, with questions about Dorothea Puente. Howard stood and watched as Cadigan pulled up information on the computer. But Deputy Cadigan didn't tell Howard what she wanted to hear: In essence, she said that Puente was on parole for writing bad checks and for property crimes, that she'd committed no offenses against people, and she had a right to have a business license.
[Cadigan later could not recall this conversation.]
Knowing that she had no official reason for being concerned about the Puente home (since none of her clients resided there), Mary Ellen Howard didn't alert her supervisors. Even if she had, they admitted later, they would have informed Howard that she was venturing "beyond her jurisdiction."
So far, no one had detected any legal violations. No one had stopped Dorothea Puente from carrying on pretty much as she had been before. And apparently, no one had even considered contacting the parole board.
Everyone seemed unanimous about the wisest course of action: Do nothing.
Meanwhile, Judy Moise was awash in emergencies: battered women with broken bones, drunks brandishing firearms, hostile street people having delusional episodes right there in front of Woolworth's. If Dorothea Puente wanted to keep some portions of her life secret, Judy certainly wasn't left with much time to pry.
Still, she was troubled by that conversation with Mary Ellen Howard and Polly Spring. Howard had claimed that Dorothea had spitefully cursed her, yet Judy had never even heard Dorothea swear.
The whole story seemed outlandish, but Judy had promised to try to ascertain whether the landlady she and Beth so ardently defended could possibly be the vile character that Howard and Spring suspected her to be. So, quite deliberately, Judy and Beth went to Puente's to ask questions.
Ostensibly, they went to see Bert. Soon enough, however, they managed to end up chatting with Dorothea in the parlor. Ever so casually, Judy remarked, "You know, you're so fair-skinned, Dorothea, you sure don't look Mexican. What was your name before it was Puente?"
"Montalvo," she replied.
"But that was your previous husband's name, wasn't it?" Judy persisted. "I mean, what was your name before you were married?"
Dorothea paused, turning upon her a most peculiar look, as if weighing the question before replying. She finally said, "It was Johansson," and the words crackled through the air like static.
CHAPTER 7
Whispers of suspicion had breathed through the
air, memos had ricocheted from office to office, but so far Dorothea Puente had no cause to worry. All the heat generated by Mary Ellen Howard and Polly Spring had amounted to only so much smoke. The landlady suffered no provocations, threats, or accusations. Her daily routine at 1426 F Street went on as unruffled as a cat's nap on a warm windowsill.
But Judy Moise had been knocked off-balance by the realization that Dorothea Puente was truly Dorothea Johansson. By nature a curious person—some would say just plain nosy—Judy wondered just what sorts of skeletons Dorothea Puente might have rattling about in her closet. Now the magazine article that Mary Ellen Howard had mentioned was nagging at her. She and Beth had agreed they ought to read this supposedly scandalous article, but Mary Ellen was in the process of moving, and they were having some trouble connecting.
Finally, arrangements were made. Mary Ellen would photocopy the article and leave it in her out box at work. They could come by and pick it up. Fine.
That day the VOA workers were in a rush, as usual, on their way to some emergency or other. Judy was driving, so Beth jumped out, fetched the article, and hopped back in. Popping the van into gear, Judy asked Beth to read the article aloud. While Judy wheeled through traffic, Beth skimmed the two photocopied pages.
It was confusing. The first page was apparently missing, and the first paragraph began in midsentence; ". . . son (not her real name) was sentenced to a maximum of five years in prison on charges of forgery, grand theft, and administering stupefying drugs. But she was never, some feel, convicted of her worst crimes."
Beth flipped from one page to the other. There was no photograph of Mildred Ballenger, Dorothea Johansson, or anyone they recognized. Instead, there was an American Indian pictured and quoted, as well as a heavy boy working in a kitchen, both apparently unrelated to the article. Odd.
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