Mourners: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Mystery)

by Bill Pronzini

  “The man I’ve been following—you ever see him before today?”

  “Once. At Erin’s funeral service.”

  “Speak to him then?”

  “I tried to. He avoided me that day, too.”

  “Possible he worked with your sister, had a relationship with her?”

  Risa Niland shook her head. “She worked for two women . . . a women’s boutique on Union Street. And she never dated older men. She had a steady boyfriend, a guy her own age she was serious about.”

  “Name?”

  “Scott Iams. He’s in even worse shape than I am.”

  Runyon said, “That marble headstone looks expensive. Did you arrange for it?”

  “My God, no. My family and I couldn’t afford one like that.”

  “Her boyfriend, then?”

  “Scott couldn’t afford it, either. And her employers barely cared enough to come to the funeral. I don’t know who paid for that stone. I tried to find out, but the cemetery people . . . anonymous order, they told me, paid for in cash.”

  “What about all the flowers?”

  “Same thing. Every week since it happened . . . wreaths, bouquets. I told the police, but they didn’t seem to think it was worth investigating. I do. That’s why I came here this morning, why I’ve been coming here every chance I could the past couple of weeks. The man you’ve been following, he has to be the one.”

  “He did seem almost afraid of you.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Did you identify yourself to him?”

  “No. I asked who he was, how he knew Erin . . . just blurted it out. Then I asked if he was responsible for the headstone, all the flowers. He shook his head and said ‘I’m sorry,’ twice, that damn phrase. That’s all.”

  Runyon was silent again.

  Risa Niland said, “Why would he act like that, a complete stranger, if he doesn’t have something to hide?”

  “There could be an innocent reason.”

  “Such as?”

  “One connected to the investigation I’m working on.”

  “But you won’t tell me what it is. Or who he is.”

  “I can’t. It’s not clear yet, anyway.”

  “Confidentiality.” The bitterness was back in her voice. “Professional ethics.”

  “That’s right. But I may be able to help you in another way.”

  “Help me? Oh, I see. Drumming up business. Well, you can forget it. Don’t you think we’d have hired a detective by now if we could afford it?”

  “You won’t need to hire me. My agency already has a client.”

  Cynically: “Just how far do your ethics extend, Mr. Runyon?”

  “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “Don’t you? If you expect something from me besides money . . .”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” he said. “I don’t expect anything, I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Then why help me? Why should I trust you?”

  “Helping people is part of my job. I’m good at what I do and well paid for it and I can give you a list of references—others who’ve put their trust in me and the people I work for.”

  She held eye contact for several seconds, bit her lip again and shifted her gaze. “Look, I guess I’m just not used to kindness from strangers, even at the best of times. . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you really think you can help?”

  “At least to the point of finding out if this man had anything to do with your sister’s death. If he didn’t, and if he did buy the headstone and all the flowers, maybe I can explain the reasons.”

  “If you’d do that . . . well, I don’t know what to say. Except thank you.”

  He handed her an agency business card, the one with his home and cell phone numbers; watched her study it the way she had his license before she slipped it into her coat pocket. “You can reach me at either of those numbers, day or night,” he said. “I’ll need a contact number from you in return.”

  “All right. But I . . . my home phone is unlisted and I don’t feel comfortable giving out the number. Or my address.”

  He didn’t tell her how easy it would be for him to get them. “A work or friend’s number is fine.”

  “Where I work, then. It’s a private line.” She recited the number. Then, after a few seconds, “Aren’t you going to write it down?”

  “I have a good memory.” He repeated the numbers to prove it.

  The wind gusted sharply, blew her hair into a reddish halo around her head. The effect brought a quick, stabbing memory of Colleen standing at the rail on one of the island ferries in Puget Sound, her hair flying in that same sort of wind-whipped halo.

  “Is that all then?” she said.

  “For now.”

  “Then I’d better go. It’s freezing out here and I’m going to be late for work as it is.”

  “I’ll walk with you to your car.”

  Neither of them said anything until they reached the road. Solemnly she gave him her gloved hand, and when he released it after two beats she said, “I’d like to ask you a question. You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Was I right in what I said before? That you’ve lost someone close to you?”

  “. . . Yes.”

  “A relative?”

  “My wife. Ten months ago. Cancer.”

  Her eyes closed, her face registered pain. Symbiotic reaction. The eyelids lifted again, and she held his gaze for a moment before she turned, wordlessly, and walked to the Datsun and shut herself inside.

  He sat there for more than five minutes after she was gone, alone in the brightening morning, not moving, not thinking. More shaken by her and the resemblance to Colleen than he would have thought possible. It wasn’t until another car passed on the winding road that he came out of it and used his cell phone to call the agency.

  7

  Runyon’s report on James Troxell’s most recent activities and ties to the Erin Dumont rape-homicide case set off alarm bells. The timing was one thing: Troxell’s strange pattern of conduct had escalated at about the same time as the murder. It could be coincidence, of course. It could also be that the crime had somehow triggered his mourner obsession, dormant or subdued in him since his childhood trauma. The marble headstone and the ongoing supply of flowers fitted that kind of obsession; it was possible he’d supplied the same service to other victims of violent crime, past as well as present.

  It was the other, darker possibility that worried me. Suppose the headstone and flowers were a product of guilt, remorse? Suppose he was the man who had raped and strangled Erin Dumont?

  You looked at Troxell’s upbringing, the shape of his adult life, and on the surface he seemed an unlikely candidate for that kind of vicious criminal act. Successful financial consultant, home in St. Francis Wood, beautiful wife—good old-fashioned American success story. No history of trouble of any kind, none of the warning flags of aberrent behavior. Normal adult male. Except that “normal” is essentially a meaningless term; any psychologist will tell you that. The human animal is far too complex for any such simplistic categorizing. And Troxell had been witness to a bloody murder-suicide at a highly impressionable age. That kind of shock can create a psychic breeding ground for demons and monsters.

  The thing I couldn’t quite fit into the man’s apparent psychosis, benign or malignant, was the Potrero Hill angle. He might’ve gone to the Wisconsin Street address to visit somebody who lived there; a girlfriend, despite all the disclaimers. Only he’d done nothing the past three days to even hint that he was anything but a faithful husband. Male friend or business associate, a shut-in he bought newspapers and rented videos for?

  But suppose he was the one renting the mother-in-law unit. The obvious explanation for a man setting up a private little retreat didn’t seem to apply, so why would he want or need a hideaway? He had plenty of privacy at home; he could do all the newspaper re
ading and video watching he cared to behind the locked door of his den. A place to keep personal belongings he didn’t want his wife or anybody else to stumble over? And what about those videos he’d bought or rented? Slasher films, sick depictions of violence against women?

  Getting ahead of myself, jumping to conclusions.

  I tried to bounce all of this off Tamara, but she wasn’t in a mood for brainstorming. Or any kind of conversation that required more than monosyllablic responses or simple declarative sentences. Over the years a parade of different Tamaras had marched through the agency offices, like a multiheaded Hydra. Most of the heads were likable—Warm and Tender Tamara and Bright and Sassy Tamara were the dominant ones—but a few were exasperating. Today Glum Tamara was back after a long absence, along with her twin sister, Self-Pitying Tamara. Quiet, withdrawn; pinched look around her mouth, puffiness under her eyes that testified to a lack of sleep. Carryover from whatever had upset her yesterday, I thought. I still figured it for Horace-related bad news, and I was ready to offer her a shoulder to cry on, a sounding board to vent at, some fatherly advice, or anything else she might need from me. But the overtures would have to come from her. She’d tell me about it when she was ready and not before. Until then the best way to deal with her—as with Kerry or any woman when she was in a funk—was to do and say nothing to provoke her. Lessons I’d learned the slow, hard way.

  I would have to report to Lynn Troxell pretty soon, but not until I was armed with a few more facts to either support or banish suppositions. I asked Tamara to pull up what she could find on the Internet on the Erin Dumont rape-homicide. It didn’t take long. One inside-page Chronicle news story the morning after the body was discovered, one brief follow-up article, the inevitable angry op-ed piece on the prevalence of sexual predators in modern society, and then silence. Life goes on and so does death, public outcries fall on deaf ears, and after their fifteen minutes of infamy the victims are quickly forgotten.

  Erin Dumont had been twenty-five when she was assaulted, manually strangled, and her battered body left in a screen of shrubbery five hundred yards inside the park entrance at Thirtieth Avenue and Fulton. Employed at a Union Street boutique called FashionSense. Born in Green Bay, Wisconsin, moved to San Francisco five years ago—as her sister had told Runyon. Marisa Niland and Erin’s boyfriend, Scott Iams, were mentioned briefly.

  Longshot that there was any connection between Troxell and either the sister or boyfriend, but worth at least a cursory look. I asked Tamara if she’d run checks on them yet. She muttered something.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

  “Routine crap,” she said, scowling.

  “What you found out?”

  “What I get stuck with doing half the time around here.”

  Self-pitying Tamara, rearing her ugly head. Judiciously I said, “Big part of the game, kiddo. Not just for you, for all of us. You know that.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Risa Niland? Scott Iams?”

  She’d run the checks, all right. In one of her moods or not, she was always efficient. Risa Niland was twenty-nine, worked at a place called Get Fit, a health club on outer Geary not far from the apartment she’d shared with her sister on Twenty-Ninth and Anza. Divorced from one Jerry Niland, a Marina district CPA, a year and a half ago. No police record of any kind. No apparent connection to Troxell, personally or professionally. Iams was twenty-six, lived in the Inner Sunset, and was employed by a catering company on Union Street. Single. Likewise no police record except for a couple of speeding tickets, the last one three years ago. No apparent connection to Troxell, personally or professionally.

  I said, “Okay. Next question. What did you get on the owners of the Wisconsin Street property?”

  “More routine crap. Ralph Linden: forty-six, works for a Japanese company in the East Bay, Yumitashi International. Justine Linden: forty-five, commercial artist.”

  “How long have they owned it?”

  “Sixteen years. Granny unit’s illegal—no record of an outbuilding on the original deed, no record of a building permit or application for one since.”

  “Some leverage in that, if we need it. Anything unusual in their backgrounds?”

  “No. Two more of your average San Francisco white folks.”

  All I said to that was, “Leverage in that, too. People with clean records want them to stay that way.”

  “You gonna talk to them?”

  “Let Jake follow up. I’ve got some other things to do. See what I can get out of SFPD on the Dumont case, for starters.”

  There’d been a time when I had several contacts on the San Francisco cops—friends from the days when I’d been one myself, a couple of guys I played poker with now and then, a couple of others whose paths I’d crossed in a friendly way. Time and a series of high-profile screwups, scandals, and shakeups had dwindled their number, and changed the shape and policies of the department. Ed Branislaus had quit the force and gone into private security work in Arizona. Harry Craddock had been promoted and transferred to the Ingleside District Station. Lieutenant Jack Logan, the man I’d known the longest and was closest to, was in line for an administrative position and would probably retire if he didn’t get it; either way it went, he was no longer as inclined to do favors for friends and/or to bend departmental rules.

  Logan was in and he took my call readily enough, but he was a little on the curt side. We barely got through the how-are-yous before he asked, “So what can I do for you?”

  “Some information, if you can manage it.”

  “Well, I don’t know, buddy. You know how things are these days.”

  “I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

  “Important?”

  “Too early to tell. Small chance it could be, though.”

  “New or cold case?”

  “Couple of months old.”

  “Still open, then?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Too damn many that are. Which one is this?”

  “Rape homicide in Golden Gate Park, end of March. Woman named Erin Dumont.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember it. What’s your interest?”

  “We’ve picked up a connection to a case we’re working. Pretty tenuous right now, no direct link to the homicide itself. But I could use some more information.”

  “Give it to us right away if the link develops?”

  “You know I will, Jack.”

  “All right. No promises, but I’ll see what I can do. Let me have your e-mail and fax addresses.”

  I recited the fax number and Tamara’s e-mail. “Thanks, Jack.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. If you don’t hear from me by this afternoon, you won’t have anything to thank me for.”

  One more call, this one to Charles Kayabalian. He was in and he came on the line immediately. “I was just about to call you,” he said. “It’s been three days.”

  “Two and a half. This kind of investigation takes time, Charles, you know that.”

  “Yes, but Lynn . . . well, you saw how worried she is. She called me a little while ago. I told her you’d be in touch when you have something to report. Soon, I hope?”

  “Soon enough. Maybe tonight. We’re still gathering information.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Jim isn’t seeing another woman, is he?”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s something worse?”

  “I don’t know what it is yet,” I said. “As soon as I have a clear idea, I won’t keep it to myself.”

  “Why the call then?”

  “Gathering information, as I said. Specifically, Drew Casement. Mrs. Troxell said he was a close friend of her husband’s.”

  “Of both of them, yes.”

  “Does he know she’s hired a detective?”

  “Yes,” Kayabalian said. “She confided in him before she came to me. As a matter of fact, he’s the one who suggested it.”

  “Where can I reach him?”
>
  “He owns a sporting goods store in Stonestown. West-side Pro Sports. But I’ve spoken to him and I doubt he’ll be able to tell you much that Lynn and I haven’t already confided.”

  “Worth a shot anyway.”

  “I don’t want to be pushy, but . . . don’t keep Lynn waiting too long. She’s in a pretty fragile state.”

  Chances were that state wouldn’t improve when I did talk to her again. But all I said to Kayabalian was, “I won’t. ASAP.”

  The connecting door between Tamara’s office and mine was open, and when she heard me ring off this time she came over into the doorway. She was still wearing the scowl. “Clark Simmons,” she said

  “Who? Oh, right, the double homicide when Troxell was a kid.”

  “Simmons was the other witness. His parents.”

  “Locate him?”

  “For all the good it’ll do. He’s dead. Twelve years.”

  “He died young. How?”

  “Heroin overdose in Phoenix,” Tamara said. “Sent to live with an uncle down there, in and out of trouble with the law from the time he was thirteen. Drugs, vandalism, breaking and entering, car theft.”

  “Sounds like it might be the result of psychological damage.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ten years old, you see a thing like that happen to your parents . . .”

  “Or your friend’s parents, same thing.”

  “Maybe. Hell, probably. There has to have been some damaging effect on Troxell, too. But what kind, exactly? Simple mourner syndrome, or does it go deeper than that?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’m just a glorified secretary around here.”

  Another one to let slide by. I pushed my chair back. “Time for me to get a move on.”

  “Where you off to?”

  “To have a talk with Troxell’s friend, Drew Casement. Maybe he can give me some insight into what’s going on inside the man’s head.”

  8