by Todd Borg
“Yes, I remember. You thought upside-down death would be like torture.”
“And you described lividity in the head and neck, indicating that the victims were upside down when they died or right after they died.”
“Right,” I said.
“Then here’s an idea.” Doc Lee said sounding intrigued. “What if the murderer did in fact suspend the victims upside down first so that they would be helpless. But then, then he brought on their death by other means.”
“Like?” I said.
“Maybe he added an accelerant of sorts to the stress-and-death process.”
“You mean a death accelerant,” I said. “What kind? A poison?”
“Yeah. If I were the killer, I’d introduce some kind of pulmonary interference.”
“What would that be?”
“Anything that would gum up the lungs.”
“Example?”
“A spray of some kind. You have your hanging victim. I assume his hands are tied behind his back, so he can’t fight you. He still has to breathe, right? So when he inhales, you spray something into his mouth. Maybe you first cover his nose and mouth, get him to build up a big need to breathe. Then, when you release him and he takes a big, gasping breath, you have your pulmonary inhibitor spray ready.”
“Can you speculate on just what this pulmonary inhibitor might be?” I asked.
“It could be almost anything that would attack the air sacs in the lungs. Spray paint. Oven cleaner. Although, those would be pretty obvious to anyone looking at the body. Heck, it could even be something that would just coat the air sacks, something as benign as olive oil. The stress it would cause from interfering with oxygen absorption, combined with the upside down stress, would be enough to switch off life in many or even most people. And post mortem examination might not notice a light presence of olive oil.”
“Give me advance warning if I ever veer close to setting off any murderous impulse in you, okay?”
“Will do,” Doc Lee said with no apparent sarcasm or levity.
We hung up.
I then left messages in turn for Sergeant Bains at El Dorado County, Sergeant Santiago at Placer County, and Amtrak Inspector Humboldt. “McKenna calling,” I told each. “I just spoke to a doctor about the murder victims hanging upside down. I mentioned that my dog alerted on the mouths of the victims in Kings Beach and Truckee. He speculated that the killer could have hastened the deaths by spraying some kind of chemical into the vic’s mouth. It could be something as benign as olive oil, which we might not notice. Yet it would still inhibit lung function. It could create death by asphyxiation. So I’m calling to suggest that you check with the medical examiners and see if they notice any coating inside the lungs.”
FORTY-FIVE
T he next day was the second to last day of the charity festival. Which meant the pop-up party was supposed to be that night. I called Diamond and reminded him. We agreed to meet for a beer before the party.
When I got off the phone, I walked out on my deck and leaned on the railing. A thousand feet below me was one of the most spectacular lakes on the planet. And the white mountain peaks of the Sierra Crest across the very blue plate of Tahoe water were a constant reminder to pause when dealing with the worst that people do to each other. The scenery seemed to demand that we take in its beauty along with the forest aromas and the bird sounds of spring in the mountains. A person can chase down bad guys, but a person can’t fix all the problems that make those guys bad. When possible, you need to lose yourself in beauty.
Spot appeared at my side. He stared at the distant boats crisscrossing miles of water. Maybe he thought that they were white bugs of some kind, bugs that moved very slowly across the blue surface and left V-shaped tracks that slowly widened. From our distance above, it seemed those bugs were getting nowhere.
I felt like I, too, was making no progress.
I revisited what I knew.
Dory Spatt’s brother Kyle had made it clear that donors to charity were very numerous, and they gave great amounts of money. After he gave me names of other donors, I’d spoken to Betty Rodriguez and learned she sent off large amounts of money to charities based on little more than the effectiveness of the mailers she’d received. She seemed to think that donating to a range of charities was the best way to help the world even if some of those charities were likely bad. It was as if she expected that some charities were frauds, and she was forgiving in advance.
When I spoke to the woman in Ukiah named Judy, she said her doctor neighbor gave large amounts to charities and that he too was as forgiving as he was generous. For these donors, it seemed like handing money to a homeless person. They accepted in advance the knowledge that the person might spend the money on wine and cigarettes. Yet they gave anyway.
But there was a group that seemed not so forgiving.
Relatives of donors.
Betty Rodriguez’s son Gray made his outrage clear, almost suggesting that he might act on his anger about her donations to potential scammers. And when Ukiah Judy talked about the dead doctor’s daughter, she said the woman burned with anger when she found the Red Roses of Hope mailer in the doctor’s mail.
It seemed that vigilante murderers might more likely come from the ranks of donors’ relatives than the donors themselves.
I remembered that one of the donors to Red Roses of Hope charity was a woman in Tahoe City. I went inside my cabin and paged through the notes that Dory’s brother Kyle had written down. I found Elena Turwin’s address.
Spot was still out on the deck, studying the slow-moving white bugs. I walked back out on the deck and pointed directly across the water.
“Tahoe City beckons, Largeness. Will you join me?”
He started doing the little bounce. He pushed past me, trotted to the front door, and waited for me to open it.
An hour and twenty minutes later, I located the address for Elena Turwin on the north side of Tahoe City in an old neighborhood of small, clapboard cabins. Her house was a mottled, sun-bleached, pinkish off-white, although I realized it had probably been painted a strong coral color 40 years ago. Likewise, the cracked, hard-vinyl window awnings which were a creamy pea soup tone, had probably started out life a deep forest green. Tahoe gets its share of serious, high-altitude sunshine, and building materials struggle under the assault. Next to the house was a narrow drive that went back to a tiny one-car garage that leaned a bit to the left.
I parked, and Spot and I got out. I held his collar, and he pranced next to me, ears focused forward, obviously interested in this unfamiliar neighborhood of classic old Tahoe cabins.
Elena Turwin’s doorbell button was missing, revealing a dark hole between two long-abandoned screw holes in the cracked, wooden siding. I rapped my knuckles on the door.
Spot stood like a gentleman next to me, staring at the doorknob, no doubt anticipating the exact moment when it would turn. His tail was wagging for no apparent reason. The slow speed.
The door opened inward until it was stopped by the chain. A large woman in her sixties with salt-and-pepper hair cut very short and gray eyes that had lost the excitement of life long ago, looked at me with a doubtful expression.
“Hi. My name is Owen McKenna. I’m calling on behalf of the Red Roses of Hope Charity for Children. The charity told me that Elena Turwin is one of their valued contributors. Would that be you?”
“‘Tis I,” came the raspy voice of a woman who probably had run a lifetime of cigarette smoke over her vocal cords. She stared at Spot.
“Don’t worry, he’s friendly,” I said.
“Of course he is,” she said in her rasp. “A Great Dane with his tail wagging. Duh.”
“May I come in and ask you some questions?”
She looked at me, hesitating. “You’re not a missionary, are you? Because I’ve already been through that routine.”
“No, not at all.”
“Is this one of those marketing surveys? Or I suppose you could be working on scientific resea
rch. But you don’t look like the business type or professor type. More like one of those cowboys who lead horse-packing trips into the mountains. Am I right?”
“Sorry, nothing that exciting. I’m a private investigator, and I’m working on a case that involves a charity scam.”
She hesitated some more, then took the chain off the door. She turned and walked through the cramped entry toward a cramped living room. “Bring your dog in. He might keep my husband from biting you.”
I still held Spot’s collar. I shut the door behind us and paused at the entrance to the living room. Next to me was a door that opened to a small room, what most people would think of as a den. Only this room had been turned into a catchall storage room. There was a workbench and some pegboard above it for hanging tools. In one corner was some camping gear, what looked like a tent in a stuff sack, a Coleman lantern, and propane cookstove. A backpack with an aluminum frame leaned against the wall. Tied to its top was a rolled foam sleeping cushion. Hanging from hooks on the ceiling were a compound bow and a quiver of arrows. As I turned toward the living room, something on the workbench caught my attention. I looked back. There was a spool of paracord, similar to what was used on the Fannette Island and Truckee killings, although this was blue. I leaned into the room, looking for any green paracord like what had been used at the Fannette Island killing or the brown used on the railcar killing. I didn’t see any. I remembered that the flagpole victim in Kings Beach had been hung up by the same line that hauled the flag.
I turned back to the woman in the living room. She lowered herself into a chair that was upholstered in nubby, blue fabric. She let herself flop down and back, sinking deep into the cushioned seat.
“I see you have a camper in the family,” I said, gesturing toward the front room.
“Two of them. Hubby and son. Son is back east, playing guitar, mad and frustrated that the world hasn’t recognized him as a significant country singer. Hubby is usually in the garage, emptying out beer cans so he can add to his recycling bin and, eventually, his recycling savings account, with which, he swears, he’s going to invest in a stock he heard about. Going to make a million, he is. Show up all those people who flaunt their success with garage space for three SUVs instead of one, tiny, nineteen-sixty-one Corvair.”
“The spool of paracord,” I said. “What do they use that for?”
“Para what?”
“The thin blue cord on the workbench in your front room.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The woman’s chair was in the sun near a large window, which explained why the cool gray fabric of its upper edge was nothing like the intense dark blue at the bottom rear.
The woman wiggled a bit to get comfortable.
“What do you call him?” she said after she was situated. She was looking at Spot.
“Spot. Although sometimes, Hey You. And, of course, No, Don’t Do That, and, quite often, Your Largeness.”
Spot lifted his head up and around to look at me.
“Sorry, dude,” I said. “I was just discussing nomenclature, and your name got in there.”
He looked back at the woman.
“Dude is another name,” she said.
“What? Oh, yeah, I guess so.”
“Poor thing must have multiple personality disorder trying to deal with an owner who keeps calling him by different names.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But there’s probably worse things than multiple names that he has to accommodate. Anyway, it keeps him sharp.”
“So what’s this about a charity scam?”
“Some charities aren’t quite what they seem. The money they collect doesn’t end up where the donors think.”
“Well, well, Hubby will wish he was in here to chime in with you. He hates charities. And that’s hate with a capital H. Says they’re all phoney. And he hates that I send them money.” She frowned. “How did you get my name again?”
“I’ve been researching a charity called, The Red Roses of Hope Charity for Children. You sent them fifty-six dollars. I wanted to ask you about that.”
“Hold on.” She stood up, stepped over to a desk, and pulled out a checkbook. She opened it and ran the tip of her index finger down the register.
“Here it is. The Red Roses of Hope. Yes, I sent them a check for fifty-six dollars last month. I remember now. They focus on children. That’s how I sort charities. I give to the ones that support children. Other charities probably do valuable work. But I can’t give to them all.”
“Do you give to lots of charities?”
“No just six make my monthly list. The one I think is most important is the Girls Stay the Night In Charity. I send them sixty dollars, which is double-matched by a major corporation, and that provides a night’s lodging and dinner for ten girls in trouble. Plus, all the girls who end up at Girls Stay the Night In get counseling to help them escape abusive boyfriends or pimps or whatever it is that has thrown them into a homeless life on the streets.”
“Have you checked out that charity?”
“What do you mean? Their brochure makes it very clear how they provide for the safety of girls who might otherwise be on the street.”
“Where is the lodging they provide?”
“I don’t know. But when I read their material, it was clear they know what those girls need. I’m a good judge of these things because I went through a bad spell when I was very young. Why is it that you are investigating this?”
“You maybe heard about the murder of the woman on Fannette Island.”
“Yes. What a horrible thing,” she said.
I explained about Dory Spatt and the fake charity.
Elena listened without speaking. Her eyes showed more suspicion. I was pretty sure she thought I was the fake, not the Red Roses of Hope charity.
“Don’t tell my husband,” she finally said.
“Why?”
“Because it’d just be like throwing gasoline on a fire. He thinks I’m nuts to send off money when we have so little. He says I might as well send money to that ultimate scammer – what’s his name – Bernie Madoff. But I’m the one who earned our money. It’s my social security check we live on, not his.”
“What’s your husband’s name?”
“George. But don’t you go talking to him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because…” Elena Turwin was shaking her head. “Because I don’t know what he’d do. He’s already threatened to take them out. That’s his phrase. Take them out.”
“The people who run charities,” I said.
“Right.”
“Do you think he could have had something to do with the woman’s murder on Fannette Island?”
“Oh, no. I don’t doubt he could do it if he really wanted to. But he wouldn’t. He’s so afraid of the water, he could never go out on a boat.”
“May I talk to your husband?”
She shook her head. “I’m not allowed to let anyone bother him. And he won’t talk, anyway. He’s what you call social shy. He’s not afraid to speak his mind if he wants. But he doesn’t talk to strangers. He says life is too short to waste it talking to people.”
“This is helpful to me. I appreciate it.”
“I’ve never met a true-life PI,” she said. “So you interview people who have a connection to the murder victim. Then what?”
“I keep interviewing until I figure out who the murderer is.”
“And then you lock him up. Or do you kick his butt first?”
“Mostly I focus on the lock part. But sometimes I do a bit of kicking first.”
She grinned. “I’ll tell Hubby that. It’ll make him feel better.”
“Thanks very much for your help, Elena. If I have any more questions, may I call you?”
“Yes.” She told me the number, and I wrote it down.
After Spot and I left, we walked down the narrow drive to the garage. Peeking in through the window, I could see a
very fine ’61 Corvair. But the garage was dark, the doors closed, and no one appeared to be around.
FORTY-SIX
W hen I got home, I called Street at her lab. We chatted for a minute.
“ Everything okay? No suspicious vehicles following you? Nothing’s going bump in the night?”
“Well, it’s daytime. But everything’s okay,” she said.
It was soon time for my beer appointment with Diamond. We met at a craft brewery at Heavenly Village on the South Shore. There was an outdoor seating area where dogs were allowed. I saw Diamond drive by in his ancient pickup, looking for a parking space. He continued until he was out of sight.
Ten minutes later, he walked up. He was wearing old jeans, an old tan flannel shirt, and over it an old brown leather jacket. Spot jumped up, wagging. Diamond pet him.
I reached out from where I was sitting, shook his hand, and said, “If you had ridden up on a horse, you’d look like a rancher from back in the days when California was part of Mexico.”
Diamond made a little nod. “Just twenty-four sweet years between the time that Mexico got California from Spain and the time that the U.S. took it all away.”
“I can’t remember how that happened,” I said.
Diamond was still standing, leaning on Spot’s back. He hooked a boot heel onto the lower rung of a nearby chair, and struck a pose that I knew was half tongue-in-cheek professor and half Mexican machismo.
He said, “Modern-day California traces its roots to a country called the Republic of Texas, which was formed in eighteen thirty-six. But it’s a convoluted story.”
“Most are, right?”
Diamond made a little grin, happy for the moment to embrace the role of learned scholar. “Mexico achieved independence from Spain in eighteen twenty-one, and part of the territory that Spain had controlled was called Alta California.”
“A big territory,” I said.
“No kidding. What we now call California and Nevada and Utah and Arizona and New Mexico and Colorado and Texas.”