The Girls He Adored

by Jonathan Nasaw

  Unfortunately, the corrected BOLO was already inaccurate on almost every count.

  33

  “BILL, I'M GOING TO ASK you a series of questions,” said Max to the elderly man tied to a wooden chair in the kitchen area of a double-wide trailer located at the top of a steep driveway in the Big Sur mountains. He and Irene had driven the back roads for nearly an hour looking for just the right place—an isolated driveway with only one mailbox. “Your life depends upon your answering truthfully. Isn't that right, honey?”

  Irene was standing in the doorway of the trailer, watching the driveway, as she'd been ordered to do. She turned around, saw the man looking at her imploringly over his gag.

  “I believe it is,” she said. Not strictly true—after her success at talking him into freeing Barbara, Irene was inclined to the opinion that Max, though extremely disturbed, was not the homicidal alter. She almost had to believe that. Her nerves were frayed to the breaking point, but she understood instinctively that if she let herself give in to the fear, even for an instant, she would be lost. It was an emotional balancing act, and if she fell, there would be no climbing back onto the high wire.

  “Okay, here's your first question, Bill,” said Max. “Are you expecting any visitors?” He'd parked the Volvo under a lean-to garage with a corrugated green plastic roof and positioned Bill's own battered white Dodge Tradesman van at the top of the driveway, pointing down the hill, ready to roll.

  Bill shook his head.

  “Anybody else live here?”

  Shake.

  “Anybody else ever lived here?”

  Another shake.

  “That's a lie, Billy-boy. You never hung those curtains.”

  Irene glanced over her shoulder, saw that the curtains were white, flounced, and feminine, with little blue windmills. Observant fellow, that Max.

  “Honey, you're supposed to be watching the driveway.”

  She turned around again quickly. By cooperating with Max, Irene hoped to help him lower his stress level and maintain his dominance over the other personalities.

  “Now, Bill, I'm goin' to give you a second chance,” Max said softly, almost gently. “See, we just robbed us a bank up in Carmel. We're not interested in doing you any harm—we only want to get out of here. But the situation is heatin' up pretty fast. What I want from you is first, the truth, and second, your van. What I'll do for you in return is, I'll leave the keys in the Volvo—it's a better'n even trade, and you'll get the van back anyway once we're done with it. Now, do we have a deal?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Swell. Who hung the curtains?”

  “My wife—she died last year. Cancer.”

  “Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Bill. Were the two of you married long?”

  “Thirty years.”

  “Man, but life can be cruel.” Max tsk-tsked. “Tell ya what I'm gonna do. I'm just gonna leave you tied up here for a couple hours while we borrow your van. If you can get to the phone before then, more power to you—if not, we'll give somebody a call to come get you loose. Any family around here? Any close neighbors?”

  Bill shook his head. His daughter lived nearby—she was working the dinner shift at a restaurant down by the highway—but he'd be damned if he was going to give her name to these two characters.

  “How about if I call some local business then? I'd just as soon not phone the police, you know how it is.”

  “Nepenthe—call Nepenthe. The restaurant—they'll be open.”

  “Nepenthe it is. Let's go, honey.”

  Max followed Irene out of the trailer and, in a bit of excessive chivalry, helped her up onto the passenger seat of the van. Then he slapped his forehead. “I almost forgot, we'll need clothes and supplies. Be right back.”

  He cuffed her left wrist to the steering wheel. Irene didn't mind as much as she thought she would. In a way it was a relief, not having to decide whether or not to make a run for it. She watched through the rearview mirror as he entered the trailer, still wearing that ridiculous pink suit, and emerged a few minutes later dressed in jeans and a blue flannel shirt, wearing a black knit watchcap over his blond hair and carrying a cardboard box, which he tossed in the back of the van.

  “There's some clothes in there.” He climbed up into the driver's seat and uncuffed Irene. “They look like they might fit you, but you need to change even if they don't. There's also a wig for you— Mrs. Bill must have lost her hair before she died.”

  A dead woman's wig—Irene could feel her scalp contracting involuntarily. “Do I have to?”

  “You have to do everything I tell you. That's how this works.”

  As the van bumped down the long steep driveway, Irene crawled into the back and went through the contents of the cardboard box. Food: peanut butter, jelly, bologna, white bread, apple juice. Clothes: cranberry-colored polyester slacks; polyester blouse, mauve, with plastic toggle buttons. Mrs. Bill must have been quite a pistol in her day.

  Irene sat on the ribbed steel floor of the van and pulled the blouse and slacks on over her tank top and shorts, then removed the wig from the box. It was Bozo red. She clenched her jaws, fought against an urge to vomit, tasted bile as she slipped the wig on and tucked her hair under it all around.

  “Irene?”

  “Yes, Max?”

  “There's a carton of Camels in that box somewhere. Bring me a pack, would you?”

  His tone was casual, conversational. Irene mirrored it. “Lucky for you he smokes your brand. I hope you left him a pack.”

  Silence. A long silence. Irene realized she might have overstepped her bounds, been too flip. Squatting in the back of the van, she felt a sudden wave of dizziness, and realized she was holding her breath.

  “No, no, I didn't,” Max said eventually; to Irene's relief, he sounded more amused than upset. “It wasn't necessary—I happen to know that the old man just quit smoking.”

  34

  PENDER LEFT THE BEDROOM shortly after Harriet Weldon, the FBI criminalist, pulled down the sheet that covered the women to their waists, to reveal one last ghastly surprise Casey had left behind for the investigators. Below the waist both women had been hacked so savagely as to be all but unrecognizable—too many stab wounds to count had reduced their private parts to a pulp of blood and splintered bone.

  Shortly after sunset, when the bodies, along with most of the FBI agents (including an extremely agitated Thomas Pastor, who had refused to speak with, or even look at, Pender), had departed, leaving the crime scene to the MoCo Sheriff's Department, Weldon found Pender in the backyard.

  “I have something I want to show you,” she said, leading him into the darkened bedroom, closing the door behind them, and plugging in the portable black light laser. “Quite a love machine, your Casey.”

  “God- damn,” said Pender. Ghostly white stains glowed like distant stars on the bed, on the carpet, on the cushion of the vanity chair, on several of the items of lingerie strewn about the floor, and even on one of the walls. “Hard to believe all that came from one man.”

  For each of the stars almost certainly represented an ejaculation—seminal fluid glows white under ultraviolet light. Later an acid phosphatase test would verify the presence of semen, but under the circumstances, the investigators could already be reasonably certain of the origin of the stains.

  “We won't know for sure whether it's all from Casey until the DNA comes back,” said Weldon, a short, pleasantly homely woman whose dark-framed spectacles, lumpy nose, and bushy eyebrows made her look as if she were wearing a Groucho mask. “But everything else points to one perp, so unless one of the victims had a boyfriend who'd visited her after the sheets were washed, I'd wager my per diem on it. Tell you what, though—I've never seen anything like it.”

  Pender agreed. “Generally speaking, most serial killers commit rape not because they love sex, but because they hate women. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am, if they can get it up at all.”

  “I wouldn't say this one was all that fond of women, either.
” Weldon switched on the room lights, knelt to unplug the black light.

  Pender took one last glance around the room as they left. Chalk marks, measurements, crime scene tape, fingerprint powder—he found himself almost nostalgic for those first heady moments when he'd been alone in the house. “I don't suppose you've come up with anything that'll tell us where he came from or where he's taking Dr. Cogan?”

  “Dream on.”

  “How about the Chevy he was captured in?” They walked back down the hall to the kitchen, where Casey had apparently fixed himself several meals, which he'd eaten in the living room, probably while watching television. He'd also slept on the couch.

  “The Celebrity? Zip so far. Same with his suitcase, same with the bankroll. I'll go over everything in the lab for trace evidence, but until then, he's a blank.”

  “Figures.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of the theories we came up with early on is that Casey is a chameleon. Which squares with Dr. Cogan's DID diagnosis. When he goes out hunting for one of his strawberry blonds, he more or less effaces his identity—becomes whatever they want him to be in order to get them to fall in love with him—not just in love, but willing to run away with him, leave home, hubby, momma, whatever.”

  “The consummate seducer. But how does that”—they were in the backyard; Weldon glanced toward the window of the bedroom they'd just left—“that mess fit in?”

  “Revenge. Deputy Jervis was the arresting officer. I think up until she pulled him over, he thought of himself as not just superior to everybody else, but practically immortal. He had to punish her for bringing fear into his life, for bringing him down to our level.”

  “But the other woman? And all that sex?”

  “I think that was just opportunistic.”

  “He sure made the most of it—his opportunity, I mean.”

  “I'm guessing he always does.” Pender handed her his card. “I need a favor—call me if any trace evidence turns up. Call me first— even if somebody tells you not to.”

  “I heard you were in the shit,” said Weldon. “I didn't know how deep.”

  “In the shit, but still on the case.”

  “Wellll . . .” She took the card. “I guess I owe you one. That was the freshest crime scene I was ever called in on.” Then, glancing down at the card: “The mobile number?”

  “The sky pager—it vibrates.” As Pender patted the pager in his inside pocket, it went off, startling him. “Speak of the devil.” He made a wiggling motion with his thick fingers—a W. C. Fields/Oliver Hardy disconcerted flutter—then used his cell phone to return the call from the backyard.

  “Pender. . . . Thanks—I'm on my way.” He pressed the kill switch and folded up the phone.

  “Can somebody tell me how to get to Pacific Grove?” he called to the sheriff's deputies standing by the back door.

  “Yeah,” said one of them, a black man. “First of all, be rich and white.”

  “That's Carmel,” said another.

  “Naah,” replied the first deputy. “Carmel, you gotta be born there.”

  35

  FROM THE POINT SUR LIGHTHOUSE to Highway 156 at Castroville, the self-proclaimed Artichoke Capital of the World, from 156 to 101 at Prunedale, then north on 101 past Gilroy, the self-proclaimed Garlic Capital, Irene managed to maintain a facade of relative calm. She rode shotgun, chain-smoking Camels, feeding peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to the driver, and lighting his cigarettes for him. But the closer they drew to San Jose, the more agitated she grew, until she found herself trembling involuntarily like a victim of hypothermia.

  Max couldn't help but notice. His custom, when an abductee needed to be calmed, was to dispatch Ish to handle the situation. He waited until he had a relatively clear road ahead of him and to both sides to make the switch. Momentarily driverless, the van veered to the left before Ish grabbed the wheel and corrected the line.

  “What's the problem, Irene?” he asked quietly.

  Irene, her trembling head buried in her hands, missed the switch entirely; nor was she in any condition to pick up on the subtle differences in voice and manner between the two alters. On the mistaken assumption that she was still dealing with Max, she decided to volunteer some personal information in the hope that it might help him see her as a person, not an object or a victim.

  “We're getting near my hometown,” she said, gaining control over her voice with some difficulty.

  “San Jose?”

  “Born and raised.”

  “Any family still live here?”

  “My older brother. My younger brother lives up in Campbell. They're both firemen, like our dad.”

  “Parents still living?”

  “My mom died five years ago. My dad remarried. He lives up in Sebastopol with his second wife—she's a year younger than I am.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “I was very happy for him—I just wish he lived closer.”

  “You miss your mother?”

  “Very much.”

  “Close family?”

  “I suppose. We fought a lot, my brothers and I, but I always knew they'd be there for me. They're big bruisers, both of them— nobody messed with me in high school, I can tell you that.”

  “Sounds idyllic,” said Ish wistfully.

  For the first time, it occurred to Irene that she could be in the presence of one of the multiple's other alters. Less guarded than Max, perhaps this personality would be more forthcoming as well. “Tell me about your family. Any siblings?”

  The response, worthy of a trained psychologist—“We're not here to talk about my family, Irene”—was Irene's first indication that she might be dealing with an internal self helper. She decided to take a chance—ISHs were rarely if ever violent—and see if she couldn't establish some sort of rapport with him. It seemed to her, as her head began to clear, that regaining the therapist's role might provide her with her best chance of surviving. In any event, it seemed preferable to being a victim in waiting.

  Irene glanced out the window. They were driving through the heart of Silicon Valley—she could remember when this area was all prune orchards. Now it was all money.

  “Am I still talking with Max?” she asked, in as conversational a tone as she could muster.

  “No,” said Ish, responding almost automatically, as a professional courtesy.

  Encouraged, Irene tried one more question. “So what's your name?”

  It was very nearly the last question she ever asked.

  36

  NO ONE ESCAPED THE clutches of Klopfman hospitality. After a real cluster-fuck of an interagency meeting at the Pacific Grove police headquarters with representatives from the PG cops, the state police and CHP, the California DOJ, the Monterey County sheriff's department, the U.S. Marshals, and of course Agent Pastor of the FBI (he did his best to ignore Pender's presence), at which jurisdictional matters were discussed, voices were raised, and fingers were pointed, Pender showed up at Sam and Barbara's doorstep around eleven o'clock to try to wangle an interview.

  Barbara had already taken two Valium and gone to bed, but upon learning that Pender had spent the last two nights in the hospital, Sam Klopfman had insisted that he stay in their guest bedroom.

  Rather than driving all the way back to the Travel Inn in Salinas, then returning the next morning, Pender, exhausted and in pain, accepted. Under the assumption that he wouldn't be operating any heavy equipment for the next six hours, he took two more Vicodin tablets—not excessive for a man his size, he felt, despite the dosage recommendation on the label—and was asleep within minutes. Some time later he awoke in the dark, his mind frighteningly and deliciously blank. Someone was tapping at the door—but what door, what room?

  It all came back to him when he switched on the bedside light, saw the cow-themed lamp, bedspread, statuettes, paintings, and knickknacks of the Klopfman guest room. Then he heard the tapping again.

  “Yes?”

  The
door opened; a round, double-chinned, dark-eyed, darkhaired woman appeared in the doorway. “Agent Pender?”

  “Dr. Klopfman?”

  “May I come in?”

  “Please.”

  Barbara closed the door behind her and tiptoed into the room, wearing a too-tall man's bathrobe that trailed the floor, over a comfy-cozy thick cotton nightgown. “I couldn't sleep—Sam told me you were here and wanted to talk to me as soon as possible.”

  “The sooner the better,” said Pender doubtfully, sitting up, pulling the covers to his waist. He was feeling warm, toasty, affectionate, and muzzy. As he glanced at the clock on the wall, noting with some amusement that the little cow was at one and the big cow at six, he remembered about the pain pills. One-thirty in the morning, stoned on Vicodin.

  Fortunately, Dr. Klopfman was under the influence of her own medication and either didn't notice or didn't care. Before long they were calling each other Ed and Barbara, and flirting harmlessly as she told him her story.

  Pender had never conducted an interview half stoned, sitting up in bed in his underwear, but it didn't seem to affect his prowess. Barbara found the big man's presence comforting. He prompted her gently, elicited details she didn't know she remembered, and even held her hand at the scariest parts.

  When she had finished, Pender asked her if she thought there was any possibility that Casey was faking DID.

  “I doubt it,” Barbara replied without hesitation. “He could fool me easily enough, but when it comes to dissociative disorders, Irene's the very best there is—it'd be hard to fool her. She ran a full battery of tests, did a clinical interview—she even put him under for a regression.”

  “I wish to hell I'd been a fly on the wall for that.”

  “You could always listen to the tape,” said Barbara.

  Pender appeared startled. “She taped her sessions?”