Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor)

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Small guy,” he added, “but incredibly feisty. Finally we got him quiet enough to untie his feet. Didn’t want a heart attack or anything.” He shook his head. “Her father—shit!”

  “Where does he say bodies are buried?” said Petra.

  “We didn’t ask. We figured him for a loony-tunes starfucker—we get them from time to time, all the Hollywood types with second homes up here. Tabloid reporters, too. We’ve been preparing ourselves for problems with Ramsey.”

  “Had any?”

  “Not till now. Maybe no one knows he’s got a weekend place here yet.”

  “Does Ramsey come up here much?”

  “I’ve never seen him, but maybe he comes up at night. Lots of the Hollywood types do. Flying up at night to Santa B in copters or private planes, or they just limo straight up from L.A. The whole thing with them is not to be spotted. It’s like a game, you know? I’m famous, but you can’t see me. They never come into town to shop, have people doing things for them. And with the size of these properties, it’s not like they’ve got real neighbors.”

  Petra took in the surroundings. Long stretches of ten-foot wall on both sides. Through Ramsey’s gate was a winding stone motor path flanked by palms. The guy loved palms.

  “Who takes care of Ramsey’s house when he’s not here?” she said.

  Forbes shrugged. “Probably a cleaning crew. There is a regular gardening crew, comes here Tuesday and, I think, Saturday.” Forbes touched an eyelash, scratched the side of his nose. “Ramsey’s also got a gofer, comes up to check out the house. I ran into him on patrol a couple of days ago.”

  “Greg Balch?” said Petra.

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  The other deputy had turned his back to the cruiser. Shorter, darker than Forbes, thick arms crossing a barrel chest. Another buff-boy. Department must have a good gym.

  “Switching cars,” said Petra.

  “Yeah, a Lexus. Still parked behind the house. At first it looked funny, but he had the keys, a letter from Ramsey authorizing him to drive all his cars.”

  Thumping noises sounded from the patrol car. Dr. Boehlinger, kicking the window.

  “Why don’t you let him out?” said Petra.

  “You wanna take custody of him?”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  It took a long time to calm Boehlinger down. He was wearing a gray Washington U. sweatshirt, baggy gray tweed wool trousers, probably from an old suit, and white sneakers. Flecks of spit whitened the corners of his mouth, wisps of hair flew at random angles, and his goatee looked grizzled.

  Finally, thirty seconds of silence earned him unlocked cuffs. The moment his hands were free, he brandished fists at the deputies. “You stupid fucking imbeciles!”

  Forbes and the shorter man—Beckel—ignored him. Before uncuffing him, they’d held the little man at arm’s length as he shouted and kicked—a cartoon situation. Now they headed back to their cruiser, conferring with Ron, as Petra ushered Boehlinger to her car.

  “Idiots!” Boehlinger shouted. He coughed, spit phlegm into the dirt, started to rant again. Petra tightened her grip on his shoulder. He was shaking like a lapdog, still frothing at the mouth. “Brain-damaged idio—”

  “Please, Doctor!”

  “Don’t please me, young la—”

  Propelling him faster, Petra talked into his ear. “Dr. Boehlinger, I know you’ve been through hell, but if you don’t settle down, we’ll be forced to let them arrest you.”

  Boehlinger said, “You’re an idiot, too! That butcher walks free, bodies pile up, and you threaten me! Goddamn all of you, I’ll have you all collecting welfare—”

  “Bodies where?” said Petra.

  “In there!” Boehlinger jabbed toward the gate. “Behind the pond—there must be a God! I came to get into the house, go through the butcher’s papers, some evidence of what he did to Lisa, but I saw a hell-uva lot more than I bargained for—”

  “What kind of evidence were you looking for, Doctor?”

  “Anything,” Boehlinger said quickly.

  “What made you think Ramsey’d left any evidence behind?”

  “I didn’t think! I hoped! Lord knows you people haven’t done a damn thing! I dip into my own pocket, and you don’t have the brains and the decency to follow—”

  “Dr. Boehlinger,” Petra said firmly. “What evidence were you hoping to find here?”

  Silence. Boehlinger’s watery blue eyes lowered. “I didn’t have a . . . clear concept. But what could it hurt? This is the place he beat my Lisa. What’s to say he didn’t write notes to himself—or something Lisa wrote— Stop interrupting my train of thought, young lady, the point is, I went to find something to break the window—”

  “The shovel.”

  “No, no, no! I chose the shovel after I saw it! I was looking for a chisel to pry the lock. I’m good with tools.”

  The last sentence a pathetic boast. Look, Mom, I’m useful. Sulfurous breath blew out from between Boehlinger’s lips. His eyes were frightened. Maybe he hadn’t been the best father in the world, but Lisa’s death had ripped him up. Such a small man.

  Petra said, “You switched from the chisel to the shovel after . . .”

  “After I saw the grave. Behind that pond of his.”

  “A grave? How can you be—”

  “Put your money on it,” said Boehlinger. “Fresh excavation, about six feet long. Far side of the pond. Plants trampled, plants missing. I’ve been here before. After the wedding, the bastard was trying to impress me. I have an eye for detail, saw the difference right away.”

  “Is the pond plumbed?” said Petra. “Maybe there’d been a repair—”

  “And maybe Charles Manson’s the pope-designate. Don’t be stupid, young lady! I’ve assisted at autopsies, seen my share of crime-scene photos. I know what a grave looks like.”

  Ron came back, saying, “Looks like you’re off the hook for now, Doctor.” Boehlinger huffed.

  Forbes waved from the cruiser and Petra went over.

  “Okay, he’s yours. Hope you’re taking him straight back to L.A.”

  “We will eventually,” said Petra.

  “Eventually?”

  “We’re in a bit of a bind, Deputy. He claims he saw a fresh grave on the Ramsey property, but we have no jurisdiction, can’t step onto the property to check.”

  “A grave? You’re taking his bull seriously?”

  “Given the details of our case, we can’t afford to ignore it.”

  “Oh, come on. Burying someone right here?”

  Petra shrugged.

  “Oh, man.” Forbes turned, and said “Gary?” to Beckel, who was sitting in the car writing an incident report. The shorter deputy had a broad, stoic face and a meaty chin. Forbes filled him in. Beckel said, “What, some kind of serial killer or something?”

  “It’ll probably turn out to be nothing,” said Petra. “On the other hand, if something did occur, it’s your jurisdiction.”

  “We can’t just go in there,” said Forbes. “No warrant.”

  “You’ve already been in there. Because of Dr. Boehlinger’s trespassing—obvious criminal behavior gave you clear grounds for entry. Once on the premises you apprehended a suspect, then noticed something amiss. Fresh excavation.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Forbes. “You’re putting our nu— Putting us in a position.”

  “Okay,” said Petra. “But I’ll have to write this up for my boss, and you can bet the first thing Boehlinger’s going to do when he gets back is contact the media. He’s already played that game.”

  Forbes cursed under his breath.

  Beckel said, “Let’s call it in, Chick.”

  “Yeah,” said Forbes. “I’m calling my boss.”

  When Petra returned to the car, Dr. Boehlinger was sitting in the backseat with Ron, talking animatedly. Dry-eyed, still tense, but conversing at normal volume. Ron listened intensely, nodding. Boehlinger smiled. Ron smiled back, said, “Interesting.”

/>   “Extremely interesting,” said Boehlinger.

  Petra got in the driver’s seat.

  “So?” said Boehlinger.

  “I told them I thought they should take you seriously, Doctor. They’re notifying their superiors.”

  “In their case,” said Boehlinger, “that encompasses most of the world.”

  Petra couldn’t help herself; she laughed.

  Ron said, “Doctor?” in a prompting tone.

  Boehlinger cleared his throat. “I apologize for everything I said before, Detective Connor.”

  “Not necessary, Doctor.”

  “Yes it is. I’ve been a rude lout . . . but you have no idea what it’s like to lose everything.”

  “True,” said Petra. Suddenly she pictured Kathy Bishop under the knife. It was almost noon—Kathy was probably out of surgery, chest stitched. How much had been taken from her? Petra resolved to call the hospital soon.

  “So tell me, Doctor,” said Ron. “Those autopsies you mentioned, were they part of your duties as ER chief, or special consultations?”

  “That was years ago, Ron,” said Boehlinger wistfully. Ron? “Back when I was chief resident. I actually deliberated going into pathology, spent some time with the St. Louis coroner’s. Back in those days, the place was a regular—”

  New man. Dr. Banks, master psychologist.

  Shuffling sounds drew Petra’s eyes to the side window. Forbes’s big feet scraping asphalt. “Okay,” he said, looking at Petra, avoiding Boehlinger. “The boss is coming. Then we’ll have a look at this so-called grave.”

  Captain Sepulveda was a blocky, silver-haired man around forty-five, with brown-suede skin and an impeccable uniform. He arrived in an unmarked with a third deputy, went onto Ramsey’s property alone, and emerged moments later, ordering all three officers inside.

  Petra and Ron and Boehlinger waited in the car as Boehlinger rambled on about medical school, graduating top of his class, multiple triumphs as an ER doctor.

  Twenty minutes later, Sepulveda appeared, dirt streaks on his shirt, rubbing his palms together. A few athletic steps brought him to Petra’s side. His eyes were slits, so compressed Petra wondered how he could see.

  “Looks like we have a body. Female, buried four feet down. Maggots, some deterioration, but plenty of tissue still on it, so it’s been days, not weeks.”

  “Maybe two days,” said Petra, thinking: Had the car exchange been just a cover for Balch’s trip? “Older Hispanic female? Approximately five-two, one-forty?”

  The razor-cut eyes dipped at the outer corners. “You know her?”

  “I believe I do. You might also want to have a look at that black Lexus.”

  “Look for what?”

  “Blood.”

  CHAPTER

  54

  Sleeping indoors is great. At first I woke up every hour, but then I was okay.

  The brown blankets Sam brought me are rough but warm. The sheets and pillows smell of old guy. Before I turned out the lights, I lay there looking up at the shul’s ceiling, the red bulb in the silver holder hanging in front of that ark. Sam never said not to sleep in the shul, but I figured it wouldn’t be respectful, so I set myself on the floor near the back door, next to the bathroom. Every so often I could hear a car drive through the alley, and once I heard someone’s feet shuffling outside, probably someone Dumpster-diving, and it made me lose breath for a few seconds, but I was okay.

  I think I fell asleep watching the red bulb. Sam told me it wouldn’t go off, was something called an eternal light to remind the Jews of God. Then he laughed and said, “Wishful thinking, eh, Bill? The bulb dies every couple months, I get up on a ladder, take my life in my hands.”

  He tossed me a bagel, left, and locked the door.

  It’s 5:49 and I’ve been up ten minutes. I can see the colored glass windows in front of the shul get brighter. I want to go outside and have a look at the ocean, but I don’t have the key to the front door. Shaking out and folding the blankets and sheets, I wash off in what Sam calls the gents’ and finish the rest of last night’s bagel. Then, opening the back door an inch, I look through.

  The air’s cool—cold, even—with tons of salt in it. The alley is empty. I step outside, make my way around the side of the shul to the front of the walkway. No one’s out, just gulls and pigeons. The ocean’s dark gray with spots of light in a few places, like orange-pink freckles. The tide’s coming in very softly, then rolling back out like someone tilted the earth, back and forth, this whoosh-whoosh rhythm. I think of something I once saw on TV: panning for gold. God’s tilting the whole planet, looking for something valuable.

  I stand there, watching and listening. Then I think of that woman in the park and how she’ll never see the ocean again.

  I shut my eyes tight and blow out those thoughts.

  Thinking of the ocean, the air, how salty it smells, how I like that smell. How this is the end of the earth, this is as far as you can run. There’s some litter on the walkway—papers and beer bottles and soda cans—but everything still looks beautiful. Quiet and empty and beautiful. Not a single other person.

  I will always love being alone.

  Now the sky behind me starts to brighten up more and the skin of my arm turns gold and I spot the sun, rising, humongous and egg-yolk yellow. I can’t feel any heat yet, but with a sun that big I know it will be coming.

  Now I’m not alone anymore: From the south, maybe a block away, I see a guy coming toward me on roller skates, wearing nothing but a bathing suit, holding his hands out like he’s trying to take off and fly.

  The picture is ruined. I go back to the shul.

  Sam’s Lincoln is there, parked crazy as usual; and I find him in the shul, looking at a book.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  He turns around fast, closing the book. He doesn’t look happy. “Where were you?”

  “Outside.”

  “Outside?”

  “To see the ocean.”

  “The ocean.” Why is he repeating everything I say? He puts the book down, walks toward me, and for a second I think he’s going to hit me and I’m ready to defend myself, but he goes past me and checks the back door to make sure it’s locked, stands with his back to the door, definitely unhappy.

  “Do you want me to leave?” I say. “Did I do something wrong?”

  He blows out air and rubs his neck. “We got a problem, Bill.” He takes something out of his pocket. A piece of newspaper. “This is yesterday’s edition,” he says. “Dealing with you kept me busy; I didn’t get to it until this morning.”

  He unfolds it and shows it to me. I see the word murder. Then a drawing of a kid.

  Me.

  I try to read the article, but the words are jumping up and down. So is my stomach. My heart starts pushing against my chest, I feel cold, and my mouth is dry.

  I keep struggling to read, but nothing makes sense, it’s like a foreign language. Blinking, I clear my eyes, but the words are still weird and jumping. I grab the paper from him and hold it close, finally start to understand.

  The woman who got killed in the park has a name. Lisa. I have to think of her as Lisa now.

  Lisa Boehlinger-Ramsey. Her ex-husband’s an actor, Cart Ramsey. A show called The Adjustor. I’ve heard of it; I think Moron used to watch it.

  Someone’s offering twenty-five thousand dollars to find me.

  I run for the back door. Sam doesn’t try to stop me.

  As I reach for the knob, my feet freeze.

  Where can I go?

  It’s going to be a hot, bright day full of people out for that money; the sunlight will uncover me. Someone—maybe a bunch of them—will grab me and tie me up and turn me in.

  Sam’s still standing there. “You can stay here all day, but remember, tonight’s Friday services, thirty, forty alter kocker—worshipers showing up a half hour before dark, nothing I can do about it.”

  I’m not breathing great and my chest feels tight; I open my mouth wide to ca
pture some air, but not much comes in. My stomach hurts worse than it ever did and my heart’s still bumping against my chest—chuck chuck, just like what happened to . . . Lisa.

  “One thing you might consider, Bill: Twenty-five thousand’s a lot of money. If you do know something about this, why not be a good citizen and help yourself in the bargain?”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  He shrugs. “Fine. I accept that. It’s not you, just some kid who looks like you. But with the resemblance, how are you gonna traipse around?”

  I slept so well last night, but now I’m tired, just want to lie down.

  I sit down on a shul bench and close my eyes.

  “To see something like that, Bill, of course you’re scared. I know. I saw terrible things too.”

  I keep my eyes glued shut.

  “You see things like that, you wish you didn’t, because you know it’ll change you. That’s the big difference in this world, Bill. People who’re forced to see terrible things, and everyone else, getting away with the easy life. I won’t tell you it’s good to see. It stinks—no one would choose it. The only good thing is, you can get strong from it—I don’t have to tell you that, you already got strong. Being out there, taking care of yourself, you did a good job. Considering what you been through, you did great. It’s true, Bill. You’re handling things great.”

  He’s saying nice things, trying to make me feel better. Why does it feel like a punch in the stomach?

  “One part of my brain,” he goes on, “is saying call the cops, protect him— No, no, don’t worry, I’m not gonna do it, I’m just telling you what’s going on in my brain. The other part—must be the strong part—is reminding me of what happened to me when I wasn’t much older than you. Remember those nazis I told you about? Some of them were cops—devils in uniform. So it’s not always simple, is it? A guy wants to do the right thing, not break the law, but it’s just not that simple, is it?”