Private Eyes

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She licked her lips and went to work on the cookie.

  I said, “I’d like to talk to you for a moment, Mr. Dutchy.”

  He glanced at his watch again. “The freeway . . . the longer we wait . . .”

  I said, “Some things came up during the session. Important things.”

  He said, “Really, it’s quite—”

  I forced a patient grin and said, “If I’m to do my job, I’m going to need help, Mr. Dutchy.”

  From the look on his face, I might have passed wind at an embassy dinner. He cleared his throat again and said, “One moment, Melissa,” and walked several feet down the corridor. Melissa, her mouth full of cookie, followed him with her eyes.

  I smiled at her, said, “We’ll just be one second, hon,” and joined him.

  He looked up and down the hall and folded his arms across his chest. “What is it, Doctor?”

  From a foot away, he was shaven clean as palmar flesh, smelling of bay rum and fresh laundry.

  I said, “She talked about what happened to her mother. Some person named Mikoksi.”

  He flinched. “Really, sir, it’s not my place.”

  “This is important, Mr. Dutchy. It’s obviously relevant to her fears.”

  “It’s best that her mother—”

  “True. The problem is I’ve left several messages with her mother that haven’t been returned. Normally, I wouldn’t even see a child without direct parental participation. But Melissa obviously needs help. Lots of help. I can provide that help but I need information.”

  He chewed his cheek so long and hard I was afraid he’d gnaw through it. Down the hall, Melissa was munching and staring at us.

  He said, “Whatever happened was before the child’s time.”

  “Chronologically, maybe. But not psychologically.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. A hint of moisture appeared in the corner of his right eye, no bigger than the diamond on a budget engagement ring. He blinked and made it disappear. “Really, this is quite awkward. I’m an employee. . . .”

  I said, “All right. I don’t want to put you in a difficult position. But please deliver the message that someone needs to talk to me as soon as possible.”

  Melissa scuffed her feet. The cookie was gone. Dutchy gave her a grave but oddly tender look.

  I said, “I do want to see her tomorrow at five.”

  He nodded, took a step closer, so that we were almost touching, and whispered in my ear: “She pronounces it Mikoksi but the damned villain’s name was McCloskey. Joel McCloskey.”

  Lowering his head and pushing it forward, like a turtle peeking out of its shell. Waiting for a reaction.

  Expecting me to know something . . .

  I said, “Doesn’t ring any bells.”

  The head drew back. “Were you living in Los Angeles ten years ago, Doctor?”

  I nodded.

  “It was in the papers.”

  “I was in school. Concentrating on my textbooks.”

  “March of 1969,” he said. “March third.” A pained look crossed his face. “This is— That’s all I can say right now, Doctor. Perhaps some other time.”

  “All right,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Five it is.” He let out his breath and drew himself up. Tugging at his lapels, he cleared his throat. “Getting back to the present, I trust everything proceeded as planned today.”

  “Everything went fine.”

  Melissa was coming our way. The white satin sash had come loose and hung from a single loop, scraping the floor. Dutchy rushed over and tied it, brushed crumbs from her dress, braced her shoulders, and told her to stand up straight, young lady, a curved spine simply wouldn’t do.

  She smiled up at him.

  They held hands as they left the building.

  • • •

  I saw another patient a few minutes later, managed to put the cello and the piccolo out of my mind for three quarters of an hour. Leaving the office at seven, I took a five-minute drive to the Beverly Hills Library. The reading room was crowded with retirees checking out the final stock quotations and teenagers doing their homework or faking it. By seven-fifteen I was sitting at a microfilm viewer with a March ’69 spool of the Times. March 4 rolled into view. What I was looking for was on the upper left quadrant.

  ACTRESS THE VICTIM OF ACID ATTACK

  (HOLLYWOOD) A quiet hillside neighborhood above Hollywood Boulevard was the scene of a grisly early-morning assault upon a former fashion model currently under contract to Apex Motion Picture Studios, that left neighbors of the victim horror-struck and wondering why.

  Regina Marie Paddock, 23, 2103 Beachwood Drive, Apartment 2, was awakened at home by her doorbell at 4:30 A.M., by a man claiming to be a Western Union messenger.

  When she opened the door, the man brandished a bottle and flung its contents in her face. She collapsed screaming and the assailant, described as a male Negro, five eleven to six two, 190–200 pounds, escaped on foot.

  The victim was taken to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital where she was treated for third-degree facial burns. A hospital spokesman described her condition as “serious, but stable. She’s in no mortal danger but is in considerable pain, having sustained extensive tissue damage to the left side of her face. Miraculously, her eyes were unaffected.”

  An Apex spokesman expressed the studio’s “shock and deep regret over the vicious, unprovoked attack on the talented Gina Prince {Miss Paddock’s stage name}. We will do everything within our power to work with the authorities in swiftly apprehending the perpetrator of this heinous crime.”

  The victim was born in 1946 in Denver, Colorado, moved to Los Angeles at the age of 19, was hired as a photographic and fashion model by the prestigious Flax Agency, and quickly advanced to feature spreads in Glamour and Vogue. After leaving Flax she switched to the now defunct Belle Vue Agency, eventually left modeling, signed with the William Morris Agency and received an acting contract at Apex.

  Although she has not yet been cast in a film, the studio spokesman said she had been under consideration for “several important roles. She’s a very talented and beautiful young lady. We’ll do everything to see that her career remains untainted by this tragic occurrence.”

  Police are actively searching for the assailant and request that any information be directed to Detectives Savage or Flores at the LAPD’s Hollywood Division.

  At the center of the article was a head shot that could have been reduced from a Vogue cover: oval face on a long stalk of neck, framed by straight, pale hair worn long and layered in a complex style, sophisticated for the time. Arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, huge, pale eyes, pouty mouth. The shadowy perfection of a study by Avedon or someone almost as good.

  I thought of what acid could do to perfection, backed away from that, and tried to look at the photo as if it were just a photo.

  The features, taken singly, were almost identical to Melissa’s, but the gestalt added up to a good deal more than just this side of pretty. I wondered whether puberty would bring Melissa to her mother’s level of beauty.

  I turned the knob on the viewer. A brief summary of Gina Paddock’s medical status appeared in the next day’s paper. Condition downgraded to stable. No leads. Another message of sympathy from the studio, augmented by a $5,000 reward for information leading to capture. But no more pledges of an untainted career.

  I kept dialing. Two weeks later:

  SUSPECT IN ACID ATTACK NABBED

  Apprehended After Police

  Receive Anonymous Tip

  (LOS ANGELES) Police announced the arrest of a suspect in the March 3 early-morning acid attack that left actress Gina Prince (Regina Marie Paddock) permanently disfigured.

  The arrest, in South Los Angeles, of Melvin Louis Findlay, 28, was announced at an 11:00 P.M. press conference at Parker Center by Hollywood Division Squad Commander Bryce Donnemeister, who described Findlay as a known felon and recent parolee from the Men’s Colony at Chino, where he served eighte
en months of a three-year sentence for extortion. Findlay’s other arrests and convictions include aggravated assault, robbery, and vehicular grand theft.

  “Physical evidence in our possession leads us to believe we have a strong case against this individual,” said Donnemeister. He refused to elaborate on whether the victim had identified Findlay and offered no details on the arrest other than to say that an anonymous phone tip had led the police to Findlay and that “subsequent investigation confirmed that the information provided to us was valid.”

  Miss Prince continues to convalesce at Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital, where her condition is described as good. Plastic surgeons have been called in to consult on the reconstruction of her face.

  Three days after that:

  FORMER EMPLOYER ARRESTED

  IN ACID ASSAULT ON ACTRESS

  (LAS VEGAS) The former employer and onetime companion of acid attack victim Gina Prince (Regina Marie Paddock) was arrested last night by Las Vegas police as a prime suspect in the March 3 assault that left the former fashion model and actress with extensive facial disfiguration.

  Joel Henry McCloskey, 34, was arrested in his room at the Flamingo Hotel, where he had registered under a false name, and was placed in the custody of the Las Vegas Police Department in compliance with a warrant issued by the Criminal Division of the Los Angeles Superior Court.

  LAPD Hollywood Division Commander Bryce Donnemeister said that information provided by another suspect in the case, Melvin Findlay, 28, arrested March 18, had incriminated McCloskey. “It appears at this time that Findlay was hired help and McCloskey did the alleged hiring.”

  Donnemeister added that Findlay had worked for McCloskey in 1967 in a “janitorial capacity” but declined further comment pending a full investigation.

  McCloskey, a native of New Jersey and a former nightclub singer, came to Los Angeles in 1962 with aspirations of being an actor. When those failed, he opened the Belle Vue Modeling Agency. After luring Miss Prince away from the larger, more established Flax Agency, he tried to serve as her film agent, according to Hollywood sources.

  McCloskey and Miss Prince are reported to have developed a personal relationship that ended when Miss Prince left Belle Vue and, in an attempt to trade fashion modeling for screen stardom, signed with the William Morris Agency. Shortly after, Belle Vue’s fortunes plummeted, and McCloskey declared bankruptcy on February 9 of this year.

  When asked whether revenge figured as a motive in the attack, Police Commander Donnemeister said, “We’re reserving comment until the suspect has been fully and properly questioned.”

  Miss Prince continues to recuperate at Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital, where plans are being made for her to undergo extensive reconstructive surgery.

  There was a photo with this one, too: a small, dark, slender man being led away by two detectives who dwarfed him. He had on a sport coat, slacks, and an open-neck white shirt. His head was lowered and his longish hair hung down over the top half of his face. What was visible of the bottom half was angular, grim, James Deanish, and in need of a shave.

  It took a while to locate the conclusion of the case. McCloskey’s extradition and arraignment, Melvin Findlay’s agreement to plead guilty and testify against McCloskey in return for a simple assault conviction, McCloskey’s indictment for attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder and mayhem. Arraignment proceedings, then a three-month lag until the trial.

  The judicial process was swift. The prosecutor distributed selections from Gina Prince’s modeling portfolio to the jurors, followed by close-ups of her ravaged face taken in the emergency room. A brief appearance by the victim, bandaged and sobbing. Testimony by medical experts to the effect that her face would be scarred permanently.

  Melvin Findlay testified that McCloskey had hired him to “trash the {obscenity} girl’s face, make sure she was no {obscenity} good for nobody, and if she died, he wouldn’t have no {obscenity} problem with that, too.”

  The prosecution produced a taped confession that the defense tried unsuccessfully to challenge. The tape was played in open court: McCloskey tearfully admitting to hiring Findlay to maim Gina Prince but refusing to explain why.

  The defense didn’t dispute the facts but attempted an insanity defense, which was hampered by McCloskey’s refusal to talk to the hired-gun psychiatrists. The prosecution’s psychiatric pistol testified to observing McCloskey in the county jail and finding him “uncooperative and depressed, but lucid and free of serious mental disease.” It took two hours for the jury to bring in guilty verdicts on all charges.

  At the sentencing hearing, the judge called McCloskey “an abject monster, one of the most despicable defendants it has been my displeasure to encounter in my twenty years on the bench,” and handed down a combination of sentences that added up to twenty-three years in San Quentin. Everyone seemed satisfied. Even McCloskey, who fired his lawyers and refused to appeal.

  After the trial, the press tried to interview the jurors. They chose to have their foreman speak for them and he was concise:

  “Only a semblance of justice could be accomplished,” said Jacob P. Dutchy, 46, an executive aide at Dickinson Industries, Pasadena. “This young lady’s life will never be the same. But we did what we could to ensure that McCloskey pays the harshest penalty possible under the law.”

  A Mikoksi with acid.

  Twenty-three years in San Q.

  Time off for good behavior could cut it in half. A belated appeal might shave off more. Meaning McCloskey’s release could be imminent— if it hadn’t already taken place.

  No doubt Dutchy would know the precise release date— he’d be the type to follow that kind of thing closely. I wondered how he and the child’s mother had explained it all to Melissa.

  Dutchy. Interesting fellow. Throwback to another age.

  From juror to retainer. I was curious about the evolution but had little hope of satisfying my curiosity. The way things were going, I’d be lucky to get an accurate history on my patient.

  I thought of Dutchy’s secretiveness and devotion. Gina Dickinson had the ability to inspire strong loyalties. Was it the helplessness, the same princess-in-distress frailty that had brought Eileen Wagner out on a house call?

  What did growing up with a mother like that do to a child?

  Men with sacks . . .

  Same dream I’d heard from so many other children, almost an archetype. Children I’d cured.

  But I sensed this child would be different. No easy heroism here.

  I had a deli dinner at Nate ’n Al, on Beverly Drive: corned beef on rye accompanied by the tape-loop blather of Hollywood types shmoozing about pending deals, drove home, and phoned a San Labrador exchange that had stuck in my head.

  This time an answering machine with Jacob Dutchy’s voice informed me no one was available and invited me, halfheartedly, to leave a message.

  I repeated my urgent desire to speak with the lady of the house at 10 Sussex Knoll.

  4

  No callback that evening, nor the following day, and as 5:00 P.M. approached I resigned myself to pumping Dutchy for information again— awkward position be damned.

  But he didn’t show up. Instead, Melissa was accompanied by a Mexican man in his sixties— broad and low-slung, hard and muscular despite his age, with a thin gray mustache, beak nose, and hands as rough and brown as cedar bark. He wore khaki work clothes and rubber-soled shoes and held a sweat-stained beige canvas hat in front of his groin.

  “This is Sabino,” said Melissa. “He takes care of our plants.”

  I said hello and introduced myself. The gardener smiled uncomfortably and muttered, “Hernandez, Sabino.”

  “Today we took the truck,” said Melissa, “and looked down on everyone.”

  I said, “Where’s Jacob?”

  She shrugged. “Doing stuff.”

  At the mention of Dutchy’s name, Hernandez stood up straighter.

  I thanked him and told him Melissa would be free in forty-five minut
es. Then I noticed he wasn’t wearing a watch.

  “Take a seat, if you’d like,” I said, “or you can leave and come back at five forty-five.”

  “Okeh.” He remained standing.

  I pointed to a chair.

  He said, “Ohh,” and sat down, still holding his hat.

  I took Melissa into the consult room.

  • • •

  Healer’s challenge: Put aside my annoyance at the way the adults were fancy-dancing around me and concentrate on the child.