True Detectives

by Jonathan Kellerman

  My mother reacted calmly to my informing her of Adella Villareal’s threats. I was surprised, even shocked, at how calm she was. She told me that she was aware of the situation, had been for months, and had been “figuring out what to do about it. Now I know.”

  The next day my mother met me for lunch at The Mesa Rock Café in Agoura Hills, California, and laid out her plan. I was to abduct Adella Villareal as well as her baby and bring them to our family home in Solar Canyon, Malibu. The timing of the abduction was to be during a period when my father was traveling on business. I was to “do whatever it takes” to get Ms. Villareal and her baby under “total control” including violence, physical restraint, “even damn tranquilizer darts if you need them.” Once Ms. Villareal was in my mother’s custody, she was to be bound and deprived of food, water, and sleep and subjected to what my mother called “reeducation,” until she agreed to give up custody of her baby to my mother and to leave our family alone. My mother would offer Ms. Villareal ten thousand dollars “for her trouble” once she moved to a state other than California.

  I expressed to my mother my opinion that ten thousand dollars would not be sufficient.

  My mother smiled and said, “Well, then she’s dug her own grave.” took that to mean that Ms. Villareal’s death was not something that would displease my mother. I was motivated to make my mother happy, something I hadn’t done in years. Additionally, my mother offered me the sum of fifty thousand dollars to carry out her plan, as well as my own house in the state of Oregon, a state where I have long expressed an interest in living because I love nature and wish to get away from urban living.

  It was under those circumstances that I followed my mother’s instructions, using Raymond Wohr to set up a fictitious date between Ms. Villareal and a celebrity individual whose identity would attract Ms. Villareal. The celebrity I chose was Mr. Mason Book, the well-known actor, because Mr Book rents a house from my father, a situation brought about through my association with Mr. Book for several years.

  Mr. Book had no prior knowledge of my plan, nor did he engage in any criminal activity. Nor had he any prior contact with Adella Villareal.

  I met Adella Villareal in a rented room at the Hyatt Hotel on Sunset Boulevard, in Hollywood, and informed her that while Mason Book had changed his mind, my father wanted to see her tonight because he’d decided to leave my mother and marry her. My instructions were to bring Ms Villareal to be with my father at the family residence in Solar Canyon, a place Ms. Villareal had expressed interest in visiting but had never seen. I lied and told Ms. Villareal that my mother and my siblings were away on vacation and that she’d be alone with my father. I also instructed her to bring her baby, because my father was going to proclaim the baby as his legitimate son and would have a lawyer present to sign papers.

  Ms. Villareal was initially suspicious and taken aback by my presence However, since I’d previously played a role in bringing her monthly cash payments from my father, she eventually believed me and accompanied me to my truck.

  I drove Ms. Villareal and her baby to Malibu but instead of heading to Solar Canyon, I continued several miles north to Leo Carrillo State Beach, a place I’d enjoyed going as a child and as a teenager, walking alone among the trees when I was depressed, or hiding out among the trees while I used illicit drugs. My intention was to physically subdue Ms. Villareal before she met my mother, so that my mother would be able to assume the total control she requested. Because of that, I came prepared with a .38-caliber pistol and plastic handcuffs purchased over the Internet from a company called Submission.net.

  I stopped the truck just outside the gates to the Leo Carrillo State Beach parking lot, a relatively open spot that seemed safe for what I was going to do because I believed this was going to be a brief process.

  It was not.

  Ms. Villareal grew extremely angry at my attempt to get her to leave the truck and walk with me to a dark, secluded spot. My intention at that point was to get her alone so I could cuff her hands. When she resisted, showed her my gun. I was surprised at her lack of concern for my gun and at her attempting to attack me physically.

  It was that surprise that led me to panic and hit her in the back of her head with the gun and, then, to put my hands around her neck. My intention in doing so was only to subdue her but somehow I strangled her and she stopped breathing.

  Once I saw what I had done, I panicked and put her back in my truck and drove her far from Malibu, to Griffith Park. I chose Griffith Park because it, too, represented a pleasant memory from my childhood, from when my parents and my siblings would take trips to the zoo and to the carousel and to the Gene Autry Museum where all sorts of entertainment industry and musical memorabilia are displayed.

  I left Ms. Villareal’s body in the Fern Dell area of Griffith Park and drove the baby back to my mother, who was waiting for me five miles up the road from the family residence. My mother was happy to see me and told me I’d done well. She said she was renaming the baby Adrael, apparently one of the names used by the Angel of Death. I say apparently, because I am not religious and have, in fact, grown to hate religion due to understanding my parents and their use of religion to corrupt themselves and others.

  Though my mother describes Adrael as evil and a source of evil, she has cared for his physical needs ever since, including giving him a car-shaped bed outgrown by my youngest brother. However, I am concerned about what she might do to him eventually, and that fact has caused me great anxiety and increased my mental instability and illicit drug use.

  For nearly a year and a half, Adella Villareal’s death remained unsolved and I believed I’d gotten away with this crime and worked hard at forgetting what I did. Several months later, I was contacted by Raymond Wohr who began by asking why he hadn’t heard from me in a while. I replied that I’d been busy. He then said, “Not too busy to take care of Adella and her kid, huh?” At that point I realized I had a problem and I went to my mother. After reviewing the facts, my mother said Mr. Wohr had nothing on me other than the fact that I’d picked up Ms. Villareal at the hotel My mother went on to say that Ms. Villareal was “just a skank-whore and those types get killed all the time,” and that Mr. Wohr was “just a skank-pimp. Try paying him off and if that doesn’t work, we’ll find a solution.”

  I arranged to pay Mr. Wohr a lump sum of five thousand dollars in exchange for his silence. I also agreed to resume employing the services of professional prostitutes arranged by Mr. Wohr, most frequently Alicia Eiger, and to pay double for those services.

  This arrangement seemed to be working until three days ago when Raymond Wohr phoned me, saying Alicia Eiger was frustrated at not getting more money from me and was threatening to go public about her suspicions regarding Adella Villareal’s murder. Mr. Wohr also said that baby-killing would be seen as a terrible crime. Even though he, personally couldn’t “give a shit about any rugrat.”

  I told Mr. Wohr that he needed to keep Ms. Eiger calm. He replied that he couldn’t, she was “nuts, totally whack,” to the point of screaming at him and hitting him in the face, in broad daylight on their street of residence, Taft Avenue.

  At that point, I phoned Alicia Eiger and informed her that Raymond Wohr had told me of her frustration and that I wanted to make everything good. As such, I’d be coming by with another two thousand dollars in cash. She said two wasn’t enough, she wanted ten. We negotiated and agreed on seven thousand five hundred dollars. I set up an appointment that day to deliver the money, stopping along the way at the Bed Bath & Beyond at the Beverly Center and purchasing a medium-sized kitchen knife I could conceal in a jacket pocket.

  I drove to Hollywood and parked several blocks from Alicia Eiger’s apartment on Taft. Alicia Eiger welcomed me into her apartment. She looked confident. We made small talk for a while, then she demanded the money. I said sure, reached into my pocket, spun her around and overpowered her and stabbed her repeatedly in the back. I chose the back because I did not want to see her face while I ended her
life. Contrary to what others may think, I am not a monster, nor am I a sadist who enjoys seeing people suffer or die.

  I am the victim of years of physical and emotional neglect and abuse but I know that I have taken lives and must pay for that. My hope is that receive the proper care so that my personality flaws mend and I can learn to become a productive member of society.

  Sincerely

  Ahab P. Dement

  Ax cleared his throat and put the papers down.

  Charles Toothy said, “That’s pretty comprehensive, can’t imagine there’d be too many questions.”

  Moe said, “When your father returned home, how’d he react to the baby being there?”

  Ax said, “I can’t answer that from personal observation as I was living elsewhere. What my mother told me is that he was shocked. Her exact words were something like ‘Daddy just about shit solid gold adobes.’ She swears when she’s drunk and mostly she’s drunk when she calls me.”

  “She called you to report on your father’s return.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He was shocked.”

  “He demanded to know how the baby had gotten there. My mother told me she didn’t come right out and say but she did imply that we’d never be seeing Adella again and that if my father made a fuss, the entire family could end up in jail. Or worse, in hell.”

  “And ...”

  “And nothing.”

  “Your father just went along with it.”

  “He did.”

  “He didn’t try to beat her up?”

  “That was before,” said Ax. “Before she got a gun. The last time he beat her up, my mother bought a gun and it stopped.”

  “He’d stopped beating her completely.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For how long?”

  “Hmm ... maybe a year. But...”

  “But what?”

  “She squeezes her own arm, sir. To bring up bruises. I don’t know why, it’s just something she does.”

  “I see,” said Moe.

  “I don’t see,” said Ax. “Maybe where you’ll send me, I’ll get some insight.”

  “How about giving me some insight about Caitlin Frostig.”

  “Who?”

  Moe repeated the name.

  Ax Dement said, “Nope, never heard of her. Wish I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to change. Being helpful is part of that.”

  CHAPTER

  46

  On a beautiful sunny Monday, Moe Reed and Aaron Fox drove north on Pacific Coast Highway. Aaron was at the wheel of his Porsche. Both brothers wore sunglasses and short-sleeved shirts, Aaron’s a three-hundred-dollar white Malo, Moe’s a navy no-name polo.

  At first glance, they were a pair of good-looking young men, out for a day of fun.

  The Porsche had a tiny, barely functional backseat if they needed it.

  They parked in the visitors’ lot of Pepperdine University, presented a warrant to the administration office, went to find Rory Stoltz.

  Confronting the boy as he left a business management seminar, they escorted him away from his classmates onto the vast, perfectly green meadow of lawn that separated the campus from PCH.

  Rory’s blond hair was gelled and side-parted neatly, not spiked, the way he wore it when working for Mason Book. His shirt was an impeccable pale green buttondown, perfectly pressed by his mother. Same for straight-leg khakis.

  Tall, lean, tan. Aaron thought: Ralph Lauren ad in the flesh.

  Except for the face, which was ready to crumble. “You can’t—”

  “We just did,” said Moe.

  Rory’s face turned stupid-stoic, an obstinate kid digging himself deeper. He began picking at blades of grass.

  “Here’s what we know,” said Moe. “You do regular dope pickups for Mason Book and Ax Dement.”

  Well-groomed fingers crushed grass, turned green at the tips. The kid had a manicure, for God’s sake.

  Not as good as mine, thought Aaron.

  Moe said, “You’ve also been observed faking a dope pickup.”

  The kid hung his head. His hands fluttered.

  Moe said, “Not only do you pimp drugs for Book and Ax, but you rip them off when they ask for prescription dope. You put together your own stash at a discount price beforehand and quote them a higher price. They give you money and send you to score, you drive around for a while, do nothing, come back and hand over the goods, telling them you had to work hard to find it, and pocket the profit. Sometimes Mason Book tips you extra for your effort.”

  Aaron said, “Those kinds of smarts, who needs a class in business management? How long did you think you could keep that up without someone finding out?”

  “We found out really easily,” said Moe. “You were observed. And guess what, we just tossed your bedroom and found all that Xanax and Ritalin and Valium you’ve been stockpiling. We’re figuring you buy wholesale from your fellow students.”

  Rory shook his head.

  “College is going to love you for setting off a big-time scandal. Forget your degree, we’ve got enough to put you away for years.”

  The boy looked up.

  “Years,” Moe repeated.

  “I never bought, people gave me extra and I saved it.”

  “Don’t insult our intelligence, Rory.”

  Silence.

  “The thing is,” Moe went on, “we might not care about any of this.”

  “Huh—pardon?”

  “Your buddy Ax has been arrested for murder. He’s desperate to save his own skin, can’t talk fast enough. Meaning anyone even remotely associated with him is going to get sucked into some serious ugly. We’re assuming you don’t want to be one of those people.”

  “Murder? I—I— didn’t...”

  Moe placed his hand on Rory’s shoulder, felt the boy’s muscles shrink in fear.

  Useful move, it was going to become part of his repertoire.

  “Rory, you need to tell us about Caitlin. Now. Even if you killed her. ’Cause we’ll find out and make it even worse for you.”

  “Kill her—no, no way I—” Gaping. “No, I never did that. I swear, no, never—”

  The inevitable tears.

  “Then what happened to her, Rory?”

  More head shakes.

  “Save your own ass, Rory.” Moe smiled. “Who knows? Maybe one day you will be a big-time agent.” To Aaron: “He could do it, right?”

  Aaron said, “He’s already got the moral qualifications.”

  Rory’s tan had splotched with pink. Blue eyes were filmed by shock and salt water. “Oh, God ...”

  Moe bore down. “What happened to Caitlin, Rory?”

  A beat. Two.

  Three. “I promised.”

  “Now you’re breaking your promise.”

  Rory looked past—through them—at the highway. Blue infinity.

  All that pretty paint and chrome speeding to pretty places. The ocean a soft teal blanket, ruffled by an unseen hand.

  “You can’t quote me,” he said.

  Entitled little prick.

  Moe said, “We can do anything we damn well please. Speak before I throw your ass in jail.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Rory. “But you need to understand: I did my best. No matter what you say.”

  CHAPTER

  47

  The Convent of Santa Barbara is a one-hundred-fifty-year-old masterpiece of Baroque and Moorish revival, weathered brick walls adorned with arches and pillars, central courtyards jeweled by voluptuous gardens. Long designated a national landmark, the convent is central-casting-perfect for the role of Sacred Refuge.

  The Sisters of Gethsemane Convent is a tract home on Santa Barbara’s east side, set on an undistinguished, poorly paved street in one of the city’s vulnerable working-class neighborhoods.

  Just another stucco bungalow, hastily nailed up to accommodate returning World War II veterans.

  The seven nuns who live at Gethsemane are immigrants from Cent
ral America and when they are not tending to sick children or Alzheimer’s patients or homeless people, they answer to a Superior General in El Salvador who ignores them. The oldest nun, Sister Lourdes Echevarria, has lived half of her eighty-five years at the convent.

  The tiny lot upon which the bungalow sits is one of many parcels of real estate amassed by the Catholic Church; its value has appreciated many times over since purchase in 1938. Six months ago, the bishop of Santa Barbara, ensconced in a lovely mansion in a more fashionable section of town, served an eviction order to the nuns. The house was to be sold to help pay a nearly billion-dollar settlement to victims of sexual predator priests. The order would be broken up, the nuns “redistributed” at the archdiocese’s discretion.

  Among themselves, the nuns discussed the injustice of having to give up their home to atone for the grievous sins of the priests. Publicly, they clung to their vows of obedience and awaited their fate.

  Many of them cried when certain no one was listening.

  Someone listened. Took the initiative to call a reporter at the Santa Barbara News-Press.

  The resulting front-page story fomented local, then statewide outrage against the archdiocese. Evictions plans were halted, though on a temporary basis.

  The Sisters of Gethsemane continue their good works and try not to think about the future.

  The nuns wear white blouses and dark skirts and white flat shoes or sneakers. The three oldest cover their hair with blue kerchiefs. The bungalow is barely fourteen hundred square feet, partitioned into tiny rooms. The nuns own nothing and seven of them manage to sleep comfortably in bunk beds in two bedrooms.

  A third bedroom at the rear is maintained for guests the nuns call “sojourners.”

  For sixteen months, a young woman with clipped dark hair, a soft voice, and willing hands has been the sojourner of residence. She calls herself Catherine and the nuns have never questioned whether or not that is her real name.