"Do you have any of Nathan's work?"
"I do indeed." Mrs. Franklin cast a longing look at the images in her scrapbook and then pulled herself to her feet. "Come on this away"
Munch followed the older woman down the hallway matching her pace to,Nathan's grandmother's lumbering gait. They stopped at a room at the end of the hallway. The smell of candle wax filled the air. There was a single bed in the corner covered with another knit Afghan. On the dresser beside the bed, a Christmas card stood propped atop a lace doily. The front was a blue angel. "Holiday Blessings" was the printed inscription. Someone had added a handwritten note. "I haven't forgotten you."
Doleen's hand made a sweep in the direction of the card. "Sends me one every year. She shore does."
A dozen black-and-white photographs hung on the walls. They were blown to eight by ten and mounted in cheap dimestore frames that did nothing to diminish their simple power.
Munch felt the summertime joy of the stick-thin kids running through sprinklers. A seagull perched on a lamppost looked regal. She stopped before an interesting shot of traffic moving in a blur down Lincoln Boulevard and recognized the old Fox Theater marquee.
"That's an indoor swap meet now," she said. "I have one he took on Market Street, in front of that mural."
"The one wif all'n his cousins?"
"I didn't know they were his cousins. I never even knew he had all this other family."
"Yes, ma'am, he's got cousins and uncles and aunties. He never did get to knowing them like he might've."
"Because he and Deb moved to Oregon?"
"Broke my heart to send him off."
"Deb always dreamed of living in the country."
"It was safer there," Doleen said.
Munch figured the difference between safety in L.A. and Oregon was about a draw. Doleen obviously didn't know about the crowd Deb ran with.
They returned to the living room. The photo album was still lying on the coffee table. Munch flipped the page to another picture of Walter. This time it was he who was decked out in his Sunday best—a dark suit jacket with the folded triangle of a white handkerchief showing at the top of the breast pocket, starched white shirt, black tie. His head rested against the satin pillow of his open coffin. He looked asleep and not much older than he had in previous pictures. Munch had to wonder who brought a camera to a funeral.
"Such a sweet, sweet child," Doleen said. Her smile was filled with ancient and perpetual pain, but her eyes were dry as if all her tears had been shed.
"Losing a child must be one of those things you never get over."
"No, you never ever do. That's for shore."
"Do you believe it's up to God? Do you think He chooses who dies young?"
"Some say it's always the good ones."
"I don't buy that."
"Neither me. " Doleen looked long and hard at Munch as if to gauge her qualifications to receive the benefit of an old woman's wisdom. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her. "I think the good Lord gives us all our chances, and some just uses all theirs up'n early."
"If that's true, I'm sure on my last."
"Bless your heart."
"The reason I'm here"—one of the reas0ns—"is about Nathan's Social Security survivor benefits. Deb told me you helped with the paperwork. I called Social Security and found out they'll not only pay retroactively from the date of his father's death, but they'll keep giving Nathan a check as long as he's in high school."
"What do I have to do?"
"You need to sign a statement saying that you believe Walter is Nathan's father. Better yet, if you have anything in Walter's handwriting acknowledging paternity . . ."
"I don' know if I have anything like that. I'd have to look up in my closets. "
"Thanks to you, Deb already put together most of the other stuff she needed—Walter's Social Security number, his, mn, death certificate, and his tax returns. She's out of the country now, so she can't follow through, but you could." Munch reached in her pocket. "I have the number of the Social Security office in West L.A. I'll—call and make an appointment."
Doleen sat down. "I don't know. I don't get around so good no more."
"I can give you a ride. This is money your son paid into a fund coming back to him through his son. It's owed to him. Actually it would probably come to you since Nathan is a minor. I wouldn't want him getting a big lump of money right now anyway."
"Why's that?" There was a challenge in her voice. "I'd just hate to see him blow it all. You know how kids are."
"You think he's messin' with drugs?"
"A little bit of weed. He says he's staying away from the stronger stuff, but you never know."
"Oh, Lord, not again."
"Again?"
The old woman wasn't listening. She was staring at her ceiling, a weathered hand on her ample hip. "Yeah, them things might even be up in the attic. It'll take me some time to go through them."
"Can I help?"
"Don't you have to go back to work, child?"
"Not today." She didn't mention that she was lying low.
Doleen directed Munch to the garage to fetch a ladder. The garage was a small wooden structure standing alone on the far side of the yard. Doleen had a garden of greens and sunflowers. An assortment of white cleaning rags that smelled strongly of bleach hung from the clothesline. The garage resembled a small barn with its peaked roof. Double wooden doors on ancient hinges opened to the dirt-paved alley The garage was full of old coffee tables, lamps, boxes of odd pots and pans, and souvenir ashtrays. There was a sheet of plywood with the words GARAGE SALE TODAY painted in red block letters.
Munch used a broom to clean the rungs of cobwebs and dust and then brought the ladder into the house. The attic was actually a small crawl space in the rafters. Access was gained through a panel in the hallway. She had to go back out to her car to fetch a flashlight from her trunk before she went up.
There were several boxes stashed beneath the eaves and taped shut, which slowed her search for the artifacts of Walter Franklin's brief life.
"How you doin' up there?"
"Good, just give me a second." It was hot, the air stale and smelling of insecticide and camphor. Doleen's voice reached her as if through wads of cotton. She thought of those three men who died all those years ago in Oakwood. Did they have family who still mourned them? Was she cheating them out of a final justice? She thought of Walter's smiling face in the family album. He seemed more real to her now. Would she feel different about the Ghost Town murder victims if they had been white men? Probably not, and it still wouldn't change her actions now The dead were dead, and ten years dead was ancient history Like Doleen said, some people used up all their chances quick in this life. Some kept getting new ones. For whatever reason, she had been blessed with chances. Maybe Thor was on the right path too. Who was she to bring him down?
"Wait a minute," she said, "before you break into a chorus of 'Amazing Grace.' We're talking about Thor."
"You say somethin'?" Doleen called up.
"No. I was just thinking out 1oud." What about Jane's path? That should count for something. And what about the other victims? Did they have parents who mourned them? Children? Brothers and sisters? Ruby told her once that if she had a difficult decision she should toss a coin and then pay attention to which side she hoped would come up. That worked great on either/or situations, but was no help with matters of ethics.
She found the box marked Walter and dragged it over to the crawl space opening. Doleen waited below and took it from Munch as she climbed down the ladder.
Doleen limped over to her coffee table and set the box down.
"I need to go," Munch told her.
"You comin' back?"
"Yes." I hope so. "I have to go do something.
Something I've put off for too long." Munch put the ladder away and headed for the place, the person, she should have gone to first. Mace St. John.
She drove to the police station, not knowing if he was t
here or what she would say to him, but feeling the need to place her life in his hands one more time.
She parked on the street and went inside the bunker-like building that housed the small West Los Angeles police force. The cop working the desk greeted her with a smile. That always took her aback, how she could go into places like this and not immediately arouse their suspicion. She had to look in a mirror to remember that what they saw now, in 1985, was not who she had been.
* * *
The cop wrote down her name and called upstairs. A few minutes later Mace St. John walked out into the anteroom. She smiled at him, feeling her lips quiver at the corners.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I want to help you."
"Good."
"What do you need me to do?"
"Come upstairs."
He sat her down next to his desk and started handing her photographs. "Tell me if anything jumps out at you." They were of Jane, the dump site, the stables, the autopsy the doll she was clutching.
"How about the shelter?" she asked. "Did you find out anything there?"
"They had nothing to tell me. They don't trust the LAPD."
"I've heard that."
He started to thumb through his paperwork, stopped, looked at her. "I ran into Rico the other day"
"Yeah?"
"He's working a cold case from ten years ago."
Munch felt as if her blood had stopped circulating. She was still holding a picture of Jane and now stared at it hard, not trusting herself to speak.
"A homicide in Venice, in Oakwood. A triple homicide. "
She licked her lips, not able to prevent herself from making such a telltale gesture, hoping he hadn't noticed.
"Evidence recovered at the murder scene suggests that Jane Ferrar might have been involved." He showed her the picture taken at autopsy of the slashed V on Jane's midsection. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"
She looked him in the eye, relieved to the point of tears that he had asked her a question she could answer truthfully "No, never. What does it mean?"
"The three victims of the Oakwood homicides had similar markings left on their torsos."
She wondered if he would make her look at pictures of those too. She had a fairly good idea of what the apartment must have looked like afterward, but she had no images of the faces. Sleaze told her once about the guy who crawled with the slit throat. He was trying to say something, Sleaze said. The dying man's lips moved, but the only sound he made came out of the gaping wound in his throat. She imagined that he must have left a thick trail of blood. She saw how it had splashed to the tops of Sleaze's, Thor 's, and Jane's shoes.
"What are you thinking about?" St. John asked.
"What's fair?"
"What do you mean?"
"Say a person does things when they're young."
"Like murder?"
"Yeah, just like murder. Jane was young. She was on dope. Maybe she got caught up in a bad situation and then later turned her life around. Should she still have to pay?"
"I know people do some dumb things when they're teenagers. But three men were killed. Marks scratched into their chests, throats cut to their spines. Anyone who went up to that apartment that day and participated in that carnage crossed the line. And statistics show that anyone who participates in mass murder, multiple murder, will do it again. I couldn't let something like that go."
"Even if they were no longer a threat?"
"Even if that were true, that's not the point"
"So even if a person got into rehab, found God, and rejoined society . . ."
"Are you asking me if that could be done?"
"Yeah."
"It' s done. If the killer had no conscience. If he could live with himself. If nobody rolled over on him."
"That's a lot of ifs."
"There always are."
"And they never go away."
"I don't think so," he said quietly
She looked at her watch. "I've got to go. I've got to pick up Asia from school."
"Are you coming back?"
"Give me a few hours."
"I'll be home all night."
Chapter 22
It was dusk. Through the front window, St. John watched Munch's car pull up to his curb. Overhead, the last birds were flying home. A duck quacked in the canal. St. John waited while Munch exited her vehicle, her feet dragging as if she barely had the energy to lift them. She walked around to the passenger door and helped Asia out of her seat belt.
He opened the door before she had a chance to knock. She had already started to turn away. The dogs piled out around him and surrounded Munch and Asia. Asia sank to her knees and let the animals lavish her face with wet licks.
"Come in," he said. "Where else would you go?"
"You're having dinner."
"It can wait."
Caroline came in from the kitchen, a dish towel in her hand. She started to ask, "Who is it?" but got no further than "Who is . . ." and then just stood there, framed by the light.
"You got a minute?" Munch asked.
Caroline pulled her in without asking what or why and hugged her. "Come inside." She led Munch into the living room and turned off the television. Mace handed Asia a tennis ball and told her to throw it for the dogs in the backyard.
Munch sat on the couch with Caroline beside her. "Tell me," Mace said.
"I've spent all day bringing myself to think of what's happened, what it all means, what everybody wants."
"Is it all that complicated?"
"Not really. Thor wants to live on, somehow to get out from under what he's done, as if turning over a new leaf could wipe out the past. That's what I want to believe about myself. The only thing different about the two of us is degree. Like with Deb. I criticize her for being a shitty mother, and the only thing that stopped me from having some poor baby when I was using was the damage I'd done to my body I would have had Sleaze's baby when I was seventeen, and would have dragged the poor kid from bar to bar while I searched for Prince Charming on his white Harley come to rescue me from myself."
She paused to look him full in the face, her eyes large, guileless. "I never dreamed that my knight would come to me dressed in blue."
St. John wanted to take her in his arms, but he needed to hear what she had to say. Besides, she probably wasn't talking about him anyway not anymore.
"Now I criticize Ruby for enabling her son, yet when the moment arrives, I do the same with Nathan, driven by my guilt, my contribution to his lousy childhood. I was quick to spank the kid, quick to ditch him when he wasn't convenient or interfered with my partying."
St. John didn't know who Nathan was, but didn't interrupt.
"And I condemn Jane for being in imperfect relationships, subjugating herself, taking the backseat. And here I've done it myself, gotten involved with a man who already has a woman. Pinning my hopes to the motherfucker only to find out he's marrying another woman and I was just an easy lay along the way. How do men do that? How do they disconnect their feelings from what their body does? How could he kiss me so deeply and not think of a life with me, a future with me? How could I not notice that it was only physical?"
"You're wrong about that," St. John said, drawing a surprised look from both women.
"I don't think so."
"I know so. He's looking out for you."
"He's marrying someone else. How is that looking out for me?"
"Oh, honey," Caroline said.
St. John glanced at his wife, then back at Munch. "Maybe it's a bigger favor than you know. Tell me about Thor."
"I saw him at a meeting. He's living in a halfway house here in L.A. It's in the Valley I know the director. Thor just took a chip for thirty days and he's talking about God like he means it."
"I just want to talk to him."
"I know. You think maybe he killed Jane."
"To keep her quiet." St. John caught Caroline's eye and motioned with his head toward the back door. She looked
at him quizzically but then said, "Asia and I are going to take the dogs for a walk."
"That would be great."
He loved her for not needing an explanation. It was time to give Munch the old "come-to-Jesus" speech, time for him to be an asshole. It was a side of him he didn't want Caroline to see any more than she had to.
"‘Who wants to go for a walk?" Caroline called out the back door, the leashes already in her hand. She had a chain with a coupler that they used for the big dogs, Sam and Nicky. The new dog, Brownie, had a thinner lead made of woven fabric. Caroline handed the smaller leash to Asia.
"lf you want her to come, call her. She's very good about that."
"Not like Sam," Asia said, well acquainted with the black Lab's stubborn ways.
They had all migrated to the kitchen.
"Listen to Caroline, honey. Give her a chance before you yank her chain." Munch was speaking to her daughter, but she could just as easily have been directing her comment to him. He'd already given her her chance. She had to know that.
They watched Caroline, Asia, and the three dogs head off down the sidewalk. Munch licked her lips and took a breath. St. John lifted his hand before she buried herself in any lie she couldn't dig out of. Whatever she thought of herself, she wasn't a very good liar.
He shut the door, leaving just the two of them standing in the kitchen. He pointed to one of the chairs pulled out from the table and seated himself in the other. "I need you to make a choice and you need to make it now. You can be a crook or you can be a witness."
"I can't pick 'none of the above'?"
He waited.
She shook her head, an almost bemused expression on her face. "Jane's been quiet for years. I don't know what he thought he had to worry about. She would have never turned on him."
"Quiet about what?" He needed her to say it.
"The murders. The ones in Ghost Town in April of '75."
The silence between them stretched to three minutes. He realized she was crying. He waited for that to finish too. Then she told him everything.
He listened to her story with stoic patience, not letting his pleasure show. With the information she provided, and her willing testimony he was looking at closing Jane's homicide and the triple.
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