“Sergeant,” said Frisk.
“Evening on the town, Ken?” said Milo.
Frisk frowned. “Is the victim’s identity verified, Detective?”
“Yeah, it’s him. The other one’s Dobbs, the psychologist who looks like Santa.”
Frisk turned his attention to me. “What’s he doing here, Detective?”
“He was with me when the call came in. No time to drop him off.”
Frisk looked as if he were struggling to bring up gas. “C’mere, Sergeant.”
The two of them walked a few yards away. The beam of a streetlamp allowed me to see them clearly. Frisk pointed at Milo and said something. Milo answered. Frisk pulled out a pad and pen and began writing. Milo said something else. Frisk kept writing. Milo ran his hand over his face and spoke again. Frisk looked irritated but continued writing. Milo talked, rubbed his face, bounced on the balls of his feet.
Frisk put the pad away and said something that made Milo’s face darken. He kept talking, wagged a finger. Milo wagged back.
Their body language grew progressively combative—-hands fisted, faces thrust forward, chins extended like bayonets. It reminded me of my boxing print. Milo used his size to advantage, looming over Frisk. Frisk defended by rising on the balls of his feet, doing lots of tight, jabbing things with his hands. They began talking simultaneously—talking over each other, competing for air space. Other policemen were starting to notice, shifting their attention from the crime scene to what was happening under the lamppost. I could see Frisk’s neck muscles straining; Milo’s arms were down now, stiff at his side, his hands still rolled into fists.
Frisk made a conscious effort to relax, smiled, and gave a dismissive wave. Milo shouted something. He must have sprayed Frisk with spit, because the younger man stepped back several paces, yanked his red handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his face. Frisk smiled again and spoke. Milo flinched as if he’d been slapped. His fingers opened, curled, and tightened. Frisks turn to rock on the balls of his feet. Subtly, but eagerly, like a hungry welterweight. For a moment I was certain they were going to come to blows. Then Frisk turned heel and stomped away.
Milo watched him go, knuckling his chin. Frisk called a uniformed cop over, talked rapidly, began pointing at the murder duplex. The cop nodded and crossed the street to the building. The dark-haired young woman stepped out of the Fiero again. Frisk whipped his head in her direction and gave her a hard look. She got back in the car.
I looked over at Milo. He was staring at the growing hubbub near the barricade, a frightful look on his face. I stayed in place, catching curious glances from cops. Finally Milo saw me and waved me over.
“Get me the hell outa here, Alex.”
The Seville was parked facing south. I drove away from the crime scene, got on Olympic, heading west. We didn’t talk all the way to Beverly Glen. As I turned off, he said, “The slick fuck.”
“What’d he do, take over?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“He can do that? Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“That mean he suspects it’s political?”
“He doesn’t suspect shit. No one knows shit—it’s too early to know shit, goddammit. What it means is that he sees it as a goddam juicy one. More TV time, chance to wear another fancy suit. Kenny do love his press conferences.”
“Kenny,” I said. “Out on the town with Barbie—there’s a real Kenny and Barbie.”
“That’s Mrs. Kenny. The adorable, spoiled Kathy. Assistant Chief’s favorite daughter.”
“Oh.”
“Oh.”
I drove quickly up the Glen, reached the bridle path that leads to the house, and turned onto it. Though the view out the passenger window was solid black, Milo was staring at it, rubbing his face.
I said, “Did he do anything else to piss you off?”
“To piss me off? Nah. Just implied that you and I had a romantic thing going—gave a dirty little smile and told me I should think twice before bringing my friends to crime scenes. When I asked him to clarify that, he said I knew what he meant. I kept bugging him. Finally he let it out: People of my ilk were ill-suited for security cases. Ill-suited for guarding the public safety.”
I blew out air. “Okay. So it’s the same old limited thinking. Not the first time, won’t be the last.” But I couldn’t help thinking it was the same thing he and I had suspected about Dinwiddie and Ike.
He grunted.
I said, “Is it safe to ask you what you think?”
“About what?”
“Massengil. Whodunit. Think there’s any relationship to Holly? Or Novato and Gruenberg?”
“Who the hell knows, Alex? What’re you trying to do, make me feel downright impotent?”
I said nothing, pulled up in front of the house.
He said, “All right, what’s on your mind?”
“Maybe someone avenged her.”
“Who? Daddy?”
“I wasn’t thinking of him. Why? Do you suspect him?”
“I don’t suspect anything, Alex. Haven’t had time to suspect. It’s not even my fucking case anymore so why should I bother to suspect? But if you’re talking revenge, revenge is usually a family thing. And you told me Burden’s a nut.”
“Not a nut. Narcissistic.”
“Revenge is pretty narcissistic, isn’t it? Playing God, power over life and death. You told me yourself he’s a control freak. Bragged about being good with guns.”
I thought about that. “Planning to talk to him?”
“I’m not talking to anybody. Per the slick fuck.”
“You can’t challenge him?”
He didn’t answer and I regretted asking.
I said, “Permit me a bit more theorizing?”
“Stop asking permission as if I’m some sort of prima donna and just spit it out.”
“When I mentioned revenge, I was thinking of something else. The cabal. Other members. Setting out to avenge her. And carry out the assignment that she failed to complete.”
“Assignment? Alex, if you were serious about political assassination, would you assign someone like her to do it?”
“Granted we’re talking the amateur hour,” I said. “But competence isn’t always the rule of thumb for those kinds of groups, is it? Look at the Symbionese Liberation Army.”
“Ye olde Crispy Critters,” he said. “Yeah, those guys weren’t too swift.”
“But they got famous, didn’t they? Which is what amateurs are after. High profile and a romantic death.”
“If death is romantic, I’m a fucking poet.”
“Holly had a dreary life, Milo. No present, no future. Belonging to a fringe group could have given her purpose. Going out in a blaze of glory might not have looked bad at all.”
“You’re saying she was on a suicide mission?”
“No. But she might not have worried about the risks.”
“A group thing, huh?” he said. “Back to the ninjas. So who killed Novato and disappeared Gruenberg?”
“Maybe that was a dope thing. Or maybe it was the opposition. Right-wing radicals.”
“Two groups of assholes?”
“Why not? Now that you mention it, it brings to mind something I just read scribbled in one of Novato’s books: ‘Same old story: power and money, no matter what wing.’ Maybe what he was referring to was political extremism—and he was becoming disillusioned.”
Milo said, “KKK assholes versus commie scumbags? Very colorful. But before you get carried away, don’t forget that what happened tonight could have had nothing to do with politics—just some jealous john. This could all be related to Cheri. Guys get attached to these girls—it happens more than you’d imagine. Or maybe it was political but had nothing to do with Holly, or Novato, or Gruenberg. Massengil was not Mr. Charm. Could be one of his disgruntled constituents set out to vote with his trigger finger.”
“Not Mr. Charm,” I said, “but popular enough to last twenty-eight years.”
“So much for the incumbency advantage.” A moment later: “I don’t know, Alex. What’s been going on is so weird I don’t even want to apply logic, because when I do, I start doubting the value of logic. One thing you can take comfort in: Your hunch about there being something funny between Massengil and Dobbs was right on.”
I said; “Sloppy seconds. Management consulting. Great way to launder Cheri’s fees.”
“What do you think about what she said—politicos and bondage?”
“Makes sense psychologically. Like you once said, politicians mainline power. For some of them, sex would be just another dominance game. What would be interesting to find out is who else, either here or in Sacramento, was aware of Massengil’s kinks. Who besides Dobbs knew Massengil was carrying on with Cheri. And maybe there were other Cheris. The guy Massengil slugged in the Assembly—DiMarco—would be someone to talk to. What if he found out about it and leaked it—another kind of revenge. Or took a more direct route.”
“Shot them himself?”
“Burr shot Hamilton. White shot Milk and Moscone.”
“Shit,” he said. “All sorts of ways to go. That’s why I wanted to get her down to the station and lean on her some more. I tried to tell Frisk about it, tell him what needed to be done to keep the investigation clean. But he just cut me off. Said ‘Thank you, Detective, everything’s under control.’ As in: Fuck you. I don’t need your faggot ideas.” Milo shook his head. “Fuck it, it’s not my problem. I wash my hands of it. Hate press conferences anyway.”
Saying it too loud and too fast; I wasn’t sure I believed him. That he believed it himself. But this was no time to argue.
28
Linda had phoned and left a message at ten: Just called to say hi. Be up until eleven thirty.
It was close to one, and though I wanted to talk to her, I decided to do it in the morning.
I was wound up. Sensory overload. Not ready to tackle the kind of stuff Ike Novato had chosen to read about. TV would be reruns of movies that shouldn’t have been produced in the first place, and hucksters pitching cellulite cures and eternal salvation. I did a half hour on the skiing machine, showered, then hobbled into bed and fell asleep.
I woke up thinking about the kids at Hale and called Linda at seven-thirty. She had already heard about Massengil’s murder on the early morning newscast. The newscaster hadn’t mentioned anything about a woman being involved. I told her about Sheryl Jackson.
“My God, what’s happening, Alex?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Could there be some connection with the sniping?”
“The way things are going, we may never find out.” I recounted how Frisk had kicked Milo off the case.
“Another politician,” I said. “This must be our year for them.”
She said, “Year of the Rat. What should I do about the kids, Alex? In terms of Massengil?”
“The main thing to look out for is their attributing Massengil’s death to something they did—or something they thought. Children—and the younger they are, the truer this is—sometimes equate thinking with doing. They have to be aware of Massengil’s attitude toward them: They may have seen him on TV or heard their parents discussing what a bad person he was. If they wished him harm, or even death, they may get it in their heads that those wishes are what killed him.”
“Step on a crack, break Mama’s back.”
“Exactly. Also, over the next few days the media will probably turn Massengil into some kind of hero. He’s not going to seem like a bad guy anymore. That could be confusing.”
“A hero?” she said. “Even with the hooker?”
“The fact that they haven’t yet gone public with the hooker may mean they intend to keep that part of it under wraps. Frisk trades in secrets. He’d make a deal like that if it was in his best interests.”
She paused, then said, “Okay. So I should make sure to disconnect their thoughts about Massengil from what happened to him.”
“And from the sniping.”
“Should I do it as an assembly or have the teachers handle it class by class?”
“Class by class to accommodate the different developmental levels. I can come over right now, if you’d like.”
“No,” she said. “Thanks anyway. But I’d like to try this myself. In the long run, I’m the one who’ll have to deal with it.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“But,” she said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing you after school.”
“How about seven? Your place?”
“How about.”
I made very strong coffee and squeezed grapefruit for juice—no doubt Mahlon Burden had a gadget that did it faster and cleaner—and, so fortified, turned on the eight o’clock news.
I tuned in midway through a film-clip retrospective of Massengil’s career. Terms like “aggressive campaigner” and “veteran lawmaker” predominated. Sheryl Jackson remained unnamed. Dr. Lance Dobbs was described as a “prominent psychologist, management consultant, and adviser to the assemblyman.” The Lesser Corpse. For all the public knew, he and Massengil had been playing poker.
The police were offering no theories as to the identity of the assassin(s) but were investigating “several leads.” That from the police chief himself. A reporter’s question about the sniping at Hale prompted a quick “At this time we see no connection, but as I said, gentlemen, all aspects of this tragedy are being looked into.” Frisk stood in back of the chief, projecting the faithful-servant solemnity of a Vice Presidential candidate.
Cut to Massengil’s tearful widow, a stout grandmotherly woman with wounded eyes under a bubble of white hair, sitting on a velvet divan being comforted by two of the assemblyman’s four grown sons. The other two were flying in from Colorado and Florida. On the wall behind the divan were framed pictures. The camera closed in on one of them: Massengil throwing a grandchild up in the air. The baby looked terrified and delighted at the same time. Massengil’s smile was ferocious. I turned off the set.
Postponing my next history lesson, I did chores and paperwork for a couple of hours, netted leaves out of the pond, and showered. But by eleven I was at the dining room table, facing Ike’s books. Turning pages, searching for more marginal notes—to what end?
At the very least you’ll have your consciousness raised, pal.
A week ago I would have claimed a sterling consciousness, in no need of raising. I was no stranger to suffering—I’d spent half my life as a receptacle for the misery of others. Walking the terminal wards, dispensing words, nods, empathic looks, strategic silences—the meager kindnesses endowed by my training. Ending too many bleak nights mired in the unanswerable why is life so cruel ruminations that come with that territory. The kind of questions with which you stop torturing yourself only when you realize there are no answers.
But the horror of these books was different, the cruelty so... calculated. Institutionalized and efficient.
Homicide in service of the state.
Psychopathy elevated to patriotic duty.
Children shoved into boxcars under the approving eyes of soldiers not much older than children themselves. Assembly-line tattooing.
The processing of humans as ore.
I’d intended to skim, but found myself reading. Found the time slipping away, until it was noon, then past.
At two-thirty, I began a book on the Eichmann trial. A chapter toward the end presented trial documents proving a deliberate plan to exterminate the Jews. Nazi records chronicling a conference at German Interpol Headquarters in Berlin, convened by one Reinhard Heydrich on January 20, 1942, in accordance with a letter from Hermann Goering charging Heydrich with arranging a final solution. A secret conference attended by learned men: Dr. Meyer.Dr. Leibrandt. Dr. Nenmann. Dr. Freisler...
The plan had been well thought-out, making use of data already collected by the previous mass murder operations ofAktion squads. Detailed statistics on the demographics of eleven million Jews.
The f
irst stage would be mass evacuation under the guise of Arbeitseinsatz —the “labor effort.” Those evacuees not liquidated by “natural causes” would be “treated suitably.” The whole thing had the arrogant detachment of an academic conference, the participants conducting scholarly, high-minded discussions of optimal killing techniques....
A secret conference, revealed to posterity only because Herr Eichmann, compulsive clerk that he was, had taken copious notes.
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