“No, Hannah. We’re fine. Both departments will receive full copies of the pictures I’ve taken. It was part of the deal I worked out.”
Hannah was clearly stressed by what we’d found. Perfectly understandable.
I was thinking Hannah probably couldn’t use hairspray. Long hair doesn’t act right when it’s sprayed.
I used to have long hair. Long blond hair. Back in those sinful hippy days. But I’d never been a sinful hippy. No guts.
I pulled my camera out of my slacks, glancing down at it. Gerry giggled. Probably had no idea where I’d hid it.
Hannah’s phone rang. She placed a hand over her mouth and mumbled into it for a few seconds while Gerry and I pretended we weren’t eavesdropping. The windows were fogging up so I turned the defroster on high. Finally Hannah closed her phone.
Probably her mother, upset about where I’d put my camera.
I looked at her in the rear view mirror, as she closed her phone. She turned to stare out the fogged up window again, saying softly, “I asked my mom about how Ada’s sister died, like you asked me to.”
Gerry said, “When?”
“Couple of days ago. Right after lunch.”
“Who was that calling you,” I said. Was she deliberately speaking in riddles?
“Pete. He wanted me to know the dog has thrown up in his den again.”
I said, “And he wants you to come right home and clean it up. I know this because I’m psychic.” I paused, and then said less sarcastically, “Kidding. I’m sure that’s not what he said. That was just a bit of sexist humor on my part.”
Hannah smiled gently. “Our old girl’s fifteen and a half. She’s been sick a lot lately. We may have to put her down soon.” She glanced out the window again.
“Wow, fifteen and a half.” Gerry was struggling out of her coat. I turned the heater down. “We had to put one of our labs to sleep this summer. It’s awful…not the procedure…just the loss. Well, actually both.”
We fell silent, now all of us staring blindly out at the bleak afternoon, thinking about our lost pet friends. And my impending loss. Finally I returned to Hazel.
“So what did your mom say about how Hazel died?”
“Just that she drowned while the family was out boating on Lake Henshaw with their drinking buddies. An accident.”
Gerry said, “I called Elixchel about this yesterday. She said one of the other boaters tried to revive Hazel, but it was no use. She said Gordon grew angry, even combative, over the other boater’s interference.”
Startled, both Hannah and I stared at her expectantly.
I said, “Elixchel knows about the accident?” I needed to call her.
Gerry said, “Gordon didn’t actually report that Hazel had gone overboard for more than fifteen minutes.” She fussed with her perfect hair, looking in the vanity mirror. “They were all drinking so heavily…but Elixchel says her family thought there was something suspicious about the whole thing.”
I said, “I didn’t think they allowed sizable boats on that lake.”
“Elixchel’s family didn’t have a sizable boat, just a small sailboat. Anyway, you’re right. The county doesn’t permit large vessels on that lake. Gordon and Jolene Stowall kept their big boat in San Diego harbor. Apparently they even lived on it for a while, back when you could just drop anchor wherever you wanted. There were whole communities of boaters living along the shallow shorelines of San Diego Harbor up until fairly recently—maybe twenty years ago.”
I said, “You got all of this from Elixchel?”
She looked at me, thoughtfully.
“No. From various sources. Anyway, the day Hazel died—that would have been in the fifties--they were at a birthday picnic for Ada up on the lake, nearer to the family so all the relatives could attend. You know.
“Gordon took Hazel out on the lake in a rental sailboat. Eliz…Elixchel—I just can’t get used to that new name of hers. She says her grandparents were invited along and came back too scared to talk about it. This was according to Elixchel’s mom, who told her some of this stuff before she died.”
The conversation lapsed again. And we probably would have gone our separate ways without lunch, except Detective Tom Beardsley emerged from the gloom surrounding my car to rap on the window by his sister.
Gerry let the window down a bit, and we listened.
“Just wanted to catch you guys up. First, one of the things we were searching for wasn’t there.” He brushed the rain off the brim of his hat.
“Hop in, Tom,” Gerry said.
“Nah. I’m soaked through anyway.
“What were you looking for?” I prompted.
“The blow dart equipment, the blow gun. Wasn’t here. Nothing was, in fact, to connect Luke to Jake’s death.”
“So they think there’s a connection?” I asked.
“Not that they can prove.” He stopped again, brushed some more rain off his arms. I was beginning to get cold with the window open, so I turned the heat back up.
“What happened over the Luminol?” I asked.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about that. Actually, I think some of the folks are using me--to channel information to you.” He stopped again, looking around him at the house. We all waited. Finally, he added with a shrug, “There are two distinct groups on this thing in the cop shop. One wants Matt and Rachel to help circumvent the stone wall the other group—mostly Stowalls—has built around Luke and Ada’s lives. They figure that outside investigators will be immune to the political pressures that have so warped the department. The ones that want your help, they got a forensic investigator to mix up a batch of Luminol and gave it to me.” He slapped his hand down on the roof and stretched his long body upright. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He fumbled for a minute in a plastic bag he’d carried with him. “Here’s your shoe Rachel. The boys figured you might want it back.”
“Tom! That’s disgusting. You didn’t even clean it off?” Gerry said. “She doesn’t want that thing in here.”
“Oh, okay. In that case I’ll just toss it. I’m going out for lunch. You guys want anything?” He was wearing a crooked grin.
Gerry and Hannah nodded, yes. He started to leave.
“Hey!” I cried.
He turned back.
“Before you walk off, what did they find in the stink hole?”
“Nothing yet. They just got permission to exhume a possible corpse from a judge. It’s a graveyard, you know.”
I persisted. “But my shoe and I weren’t anywhere near the graveyard.”
“Oh, you mean the hole by the shed?”
“Yes. The stink hole.”
“Wasn’t anything there. Not even the shoe. We found your shoe just this side of the cemetery.” His look sharpened.
I wondered who could have moved my shoe and what else might have been removed from that hole. I wondered if Tom was thinking the same thing. Gerry’s face showed a mixture of alarm and curiosity. Guess we were on the same page.
Tom grinned, and asked, “So, do you want me to get you lunch too?”
In fifteen minutes we were chowing down on burgers and fries like there was no tomorrow.
We finished. I began glancing at my watch. Wondering what to do next.
“He wants us to stay,” Gerry said. “He thinks there’s more to come.”
I agreed with her assessment, but digging holes all over the place could take time. Time I could use cleaning up my desk.
Hannah said, “Here, read this.”
She reached over from the back seat and let a little brown book slide down the front of me into my lap.
“Another diary? Ada’s? Where did you get it?”
“In the hullabaloo down in the basement I picked it up off his night stand. It was spontaneous.”
Uh-oh. Not good.
“I never heard that and I’m not holding this right now. Tom will receive this in the mail shortly.” I eyed both of them.
“Evidence is never removed from a crime scene, lad
ies.” I was quite serious. I didn’t want them getting into trouble. “Photographs, pictures we take ourselves, and our observations, that’s it. All physical evidence remains where it is.” I was speaking as gently as I could, but this was important.
Hannah turned to look out the window.
“Don’t worry about it Hannah. I’ll get it back where it belongs.”
I stowed the book in a plastic baggie and put it in my backpack, secretly thinking I’d probably have stolen it myself if I’d seen it.
Then I turned my camera on. It was time to see what I had captured in the basement. My new assistants leaned forward eagerly. We began reviewing shot after shot of a filthy, cramped cage you wouldn’t keep your dog in.
Gerry said, “How long was he down there?”
We were whispering again. Afraid the Devil would hear us.
Hannah said, “My mom told me he supposedly died when he was sixteen. She said she remembers there was a broken hearted girlfriend. She can’t remember the girl’s name.”
Gerry said, “So that must have been when they locked him up. When he was sixteen. I wonder how old he is now. You may have noticed, Rachel, he’s not listed on the version of the genealogy I gave you. It’s a copy of the one my parents had. There wasn’t any date on it, but I’m thinking the document must be pretty old not to have included Eddie.” Gerry said.
I nodded. I had noticed that Eddie wasn’t named. And now her explanation made sense of the omission.
I said, “Does your mom remember when she first heard of Eddie’s death? Maybe something that happened around the same time?”
Hannah said, “Only that it was back before her favorite president.”
I stopped scrolling through the hastily taken shots of the basement prison, waiting for the punch line.
Finally Hannah noticed and said, “Clinton. My mother’s part Irish. She dates everything either BC or AC.”
I nodded. My camera had reached the point where I’d entered the cramped bathroom.
Gerry said, “So, before 1992. So Eddie was imprisoned in the basement for….”
Hannah said, “At least twenty years. Maybe longer.”
Two pictures of the shower stall. Partially torn curtain. Black mold in the corners.
Gerry said, “Do you think they kept him in that cage all the time? They must have let him out occasionally, right? I mean, even a murderer gets time in an exercise yard. What the hell did he do to deserve this?” She’d stopped whispering.
We’d all stopped whispering.
Hannah reached over the seatback to point. “What are those? Look, those medicine bottles. Zoom in!”
We peered at the five shelves of prescription bottles in the medicine chest—switching back and forth between the several pictures I’d snapped, searching for the clearest. I was disappointed that only a two of the bottles had the labels fully facing us. And one of those was partially washed out by the flash.
I fiddled with the dials on my mini camera, thinking mini wasn’t always so great. My quilter’s fingers felt more like a man’s. I finally maneuvered to a close up of the clearest bottles.
Hannah muttered, “Sleeping pills. And…maybe Valium.”
I said, “I didn’t think it was called that anymore.”
Gerry added, “And tranquilizers. That one may be Prozac. My mom is on that. And the little blue pill is Halcion. Downers. All of them are downers of one kind or another.”
To control the poor man. To keep him calm and manageable.
Hannah said, “Ada’s?”
I focused in on the clearest bottle again. “Yes. It looks like it. Ada must have been getting them filled. The date on this one is a couple years old. But the bottle at the top is fairly current.”
Suddenly a shot of the wastebasket came into view. I quickly returned to the cabinet shelves.
“Wait! Go back, Rachel,” Hannah said.
I did as she asked.
Gerry said, “Look at that. It’s a syringe. So they were shooting him up with stuff, too.”
No one had to ask me. I focused in as closely as I could, to read the label.
Gerry said, “’Depo-Provera’. What the heck is Depo-Provera?”
I felt a frown crease my forehead.
Hannah said, “Ada’s?”
“No.” I didn’t explain my answer. There was no name visible. But the obvious reason this couldn’t be in Ada’s name is because she was in her sixties.
Hannah peered more closely, stretching herself over the back seat. “What’s that date?”
I couldn’t read it. Was wondering if she did yoga, feeling my space invaded.
Gerry leaned in closer, too. “Maybe an injectable tranq?”
I shook my head. They pulled back.
Hannah said, “What?”
There was little doubt in my mind now. I said, “Depo-Provera is a progestin-only hormone. It can be used as a contraceptive, especially for mentally challenged females, who need protection, but can’t be relied upon to remember their pills. It can last for several months. But…it’s also used for chemical castration. It converts testosterone into estrogen. Kills the male libido.”
The drumming of the steady rain on the roof formed a cocoon around the silence in the car. For a few seconds Gerry and Hannah tried to absorb what this might mean.
Gerry spoke first. “But…why?”
I said, “Pedophilia is the usual reason.”
Hannah said, “How do you know that, Rachel?”
“Matt and I did a search for a child molester who’d gone underground last year. We were told he was on Depo-Provera…till he ran away. There was a limited window of time before the drug would wear off. We never did find him. Matt’s still looking for him, when he can.”
Gerry pulled away, turned toward the crying window. “Oh dear God, no.” She began shaking her head no, slowly.
The noisy cocoon returned eagerly.
Hannah said, “So, we’re thinking Eddie might have molested a child when he was in his teens and that’s why they kept him in the basement? Maybe that child was the girlfriend my mom spoke about?”
I turned to look back at Hannah. There was something in her tone.
“Maybe,” I answered tentatively.
“So how does that explain Ada?”
The question was too hard. She was angered by the thought. But was she angry at me for suggesting it?
“Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s a separate issue,” I said.
Gerry said softly, “All rapists murder. Even when they don’t murder the body, they murder the soul.”
Their emotions were carrying them in two different directions. Hannah had clearly developed an image of Eddie as a victim. She was having difficulty entertaining the possibility that he was more than that.
And Gerry was…she seemed to be exploring some female truth that either rose out of her motherhood—of four boys--or out of some personal experience.
Either way, it could present a hindrance to her objectivity.
I said, “That’s why you’ve hired me, ladies. To find out what the Stowall secret is. And it’s now led us to the question of who Eddie is.”
I saw this as a turning point in my investigation of the Stowall secret--from searching for answers about Ada’s death, to searching for answers about Eddie’s life.
Slowly, the sounds of barking dogs, then voices—shouts--reached us from behind the house. I rolled Gerry’s window down a notch. The cops and their canine hunters were excited. They’d found something.
“Get your umbrella Gerry, we’re going out.”
We made our way around the house and through the backyard toward the cemetery. As we neared, Gerry slowed the pace, but I encouraged her to get closer. From this distance all I could see was an oddly familiar shape coated in mud at the feet of a group of raincoat draped deputies.
They’d pulled someone up from the ground.
“It’s a body. I don’t know if I can,” Gerry whispered and slowed again.
&nb
sp; “Try,” Hannah encouraged gently.
We needed her umbrella. Gerry inched a bit closer.
The lump of mud began to turn a gray-pink as the rain continued to wash it—especially around her augmented breasts. But the most startling color to emerge from the mud-covered form was a mass of bright, red hair.
One of the officers coughed and turned away. Another swore, and said, “It’s one of them missing women.”
“Thought you said they were in Vegas, Gary,” another raincoat shrouded form said.
No bad deed goes unnoticed, I mused.
“Let’s get APBs out on these two guys. One or both of them think that having a family graveyard is a license to kill.”
Luke and Eddie. They were talking about Luke and Eddie.
“All right, get the spectators back. We got work to do boys. There may be more here. Clear the area.”
We were hustled away unceremoniously. When we reached my car, my assistants quickly said their goodbyes and drove away.
I sat for a few minutes more, contemplating my need to get my own oversized umbrella real soon. Southern California was experiencing climate drenching.
And contemplating that now Eddie Stowall--whatever horror had been done to him or he had done to others--was a hunted man.
Chapter 30: Heritage
The horror of Hazel Stowall’s forever young life was limited to the first of Ada’s two known diaries. I skim read the rest of diary one; it held additional accounts of destruction both physical and psychological, meted out by the drunken Gordon to his broken wife. Skim reading was all I could bear.
Then I began the second.
The difference between the two diaries was that the first volume contained mostly remembered stories about Ada’s earliest life, written down by her when she was an older child.
The second volume had been recorded as her life occurred—beginning in her twelfth year. It was a real-time diary. And not until the second diary did the childhood reflections recount that in between the violent storms a sober Gordon and Jolene Stowall lived good and normal lives.
But something odd struck me about this mixed-race couple who the genealogy stated was married in 1942; the anti-miscegenation laws of California weren’t repealed until 1948.
Ada Unraveled Page 20