Teteni smiled weakly and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. It looked to Nick like Teteni’s job was taking a lot out of him. Reminded him of David.
After the class, Teteni sat at a table in the back of the room and examined the crime scene photographs from several case files brought by the detectives. Each detective told Teteni the basic facts of the case while the FBI special agent considered the photos. The detectives were told not to describe their prime suspects, if they had one.
Nick stood up close so he could see the pictures, too, and try to understand how Teteni was learning from them. Unlike Dr. Brussel’s dramatically detailed description, Teteni’s speculations were more general but still practical.
When it was his turn, he handed Teteni the packinghouse photographs and described what they had discovered so far.
Teteni set the file on the table. Then opened it to the crime scene pictures. He listened and turned the pictures while Nick talked.
Nick saw that Teteni was patient and focused, but somehow methodical, too. He appeared to spend exactly the same amount of time on each photo. His hand ready to turn it over. Like an internal clock was ticking.
Finally he looked up at Nick.
“This packinghouse closed operations when?”
“Sixty-four.”
“It’s hidden in the orange groves, or at least obscured by them?”
“Obscured.”
Teteni flipped to a packinghouse exterior. Nick could see the orange trees buffeted by the wind.
“You probably wouldn’t know about it unless you had lived in the area?”
“Probably not.”
“Visible from any public road?”
“No.”
“Transients use it for sleeping, maybe young people for sex and drinking and drug use?”
“Yes.”
“She wasn’t killed there?”
“No. We haven’t found out where yet.”
“Vaginally raped?”
“Yes sir.”
Teteni turned to a picture of Janelle’s severed head. Eyes open. Seeing nothing. “I think it’s a ruse.”
“Sir?”
“Call me Doug. This is not a stranger killing. This has nothing to do with transients. He knew her. He believes that she insulted and betrayed him in some way that is unspeakable to him. He killed her on impulse, by strangulation—no weapons and very little forethought. If he obtained the saw himself, it was likely after he’d killed her. More likely that he stumbled on it in some way, that it was already there, or already in his possession for other reasons. He removed her head to symbolically make sure she would never insult and betray him again. And to make himself appear insane. He placed her body here, in surroundings unrelated to her or to himself. I don’t think he’s done this kind of thing before and I don’t think he’ll do it again.”
“Why? What makes you say that?”
“No planning and unnecessary work. He took a great deal of risk and spent a good deal of time killing her in one place, then moving the body here for mutilation. Stranger killers are more organized. Age would be late thirties to late forties. Familiar with but no longer living in the area of the murder. I would say that he is either a professional of some kind or an artist or craftsman. He has terrific pride in himself, or in his reputation or his creations, and that is what she insulted so badly to deserve this.”
Nick’s heart was pounding. Then sinking as he watched Teteni close the file and hand it back to him.
“Would he take something from her as a reminder, like you talked about?”
“No. But unpracticed killers surprise us by what they remove from the scene simply to keep the police from finding it.”
“Does he want to be caught?” asked Nick.
“No,” said Teteni. “He feels massive shame but even more massive fear of being caught. Did she have a large funeral or memorial service?”
“Several hundred.”
“He was probably there.”
Home movies, thought Nick. David always made Super 8 home movies of his Sunday services, so why not of the biggest funeral he’d ever done?
Nick’s heart was beating strong and he believed that those movies would lead to something important. He believed for the first time in days that he was really going to crack this case. It had gotten into his head that if you never closed that first case, you could never call yourself good. You had to pass first grade. Make the cut.
“Someday I want to do what you do,” said Nick.
Some of the guys looked at him. He felt his face get red. Hadn’t meant to blurt, but hadn’t known what he wanted to do with the next thirty years of his life until right now. Talk about understanding the kinks.
“Give me your card, Nick,” said Teteni. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead again. “I’ll call you if anything else comes to mind. Good luck. Next?”
NICK MADE David’s home by eleven. Barbara was still up, got David out of bed. Then David took Nick to the Grove Drive-In to get the Super 8 film of Janelle’s memorial service and funeral. There were four thirty-minute reels. David let him have the good projector but Nick had to promise to have it back by Saturday. David told him there was some crowd footage but not that much. Most of the movies showed, well, himself.
At home Nick moved the cars out of the garage and set the projector up on his big wheeled toolbox. Used the wall next to the Odd Box for a screen. Katy wandered out in her pj’s and robe, kissed him dreamily, then wandered back into the house.
Nick watched all two hours and drank four beers without taking a leak.
It was just like he remembered. What, almost a thousand people? Vonns and Beckers and Langtons and Stoltzes and Dessingers. Jesse Black and Crystal and Gail and hundreds of Janelle’s relatives and friends and neighbors he couldn’t even identify. But the greatest numbers were the throng brought in by Janelle’s momentary celebrity. The Headless Beauty Queen of Orange County. Everybody loves a pretty girl and a tragedy.
Nick hit pay dirt late in the fourth reel. Shot of the green slopes of the cemetery and the crowd. And there he was, squeezed into the people around him, looking down like he didn’t want to be seen.
Hair pushed up under the hat. Black sunglasses. Trying to be small. But Cory Bonnett was unmistakable.
27
THE NEXT MORNING Andy stood on the porch of 1303 North Bayfront, Balboa Island, Newport Beach. He knocked again. The sliding door was open and a cool breeze lifted the curtains. He watched a stout Mexican woman lean a mop against a wall and come slowly toward him down a hallway.
Friday, October 18. Seventeen days after the murder.
Three days after reading Janelle Vonn’s letters about Roger Stoltz.
Two days after his signed editorial in the Orange County Journal accused his older brother of incompetence. The deputies in the Sheriff’s Department pressroom earlier this morning had ignored him. But carried on with the other reporters as usual. Andy had never been generally dismissed and didn’t care for the feeling. It went without saying that his department sources had dried up.
Andy introduced himself in Spanish to the cleaning lady. Said he was Mike Jones, one of Representative Stoltz’s associates in the American Congress. Her name was Marci. He made small talk about the weather and maybe renting the place, because Mr. Stoltz had told him what a nice apartment it was. She didn’t know a Mr. Stoltz. She knew Maid in America cleaning service because she’d been working for them for four years.
She smiled, incisors framed in gold. Stood aside. Andy said he’d be quick. She could keep on working and he’d be gone in just a few minutes.
Downstairs were the living room, kitchen, and two small bedrooms that shared a bath. Sparsely furnished. Nice maple floors. Throw rugs and prints of watercolors on the walls.
Andy pictured Janelle here. He unfolded the copy of the letter written in this apartment just over a year ago.
September 10, 1967
Dear Lynette,
Roger gave me t
he place in Newport full-time. Practically made me move in. For now I guess it’s okay. I don’t like owing him even though he says I don’t. His wife is sweet. Troy of the cops says I have some more money coming, but he’s usually slow with it. Says his department might have an apartment in Laguna they could let me have awhile. I want MY place.
You can see the sailboats from the bedroom window. Roger thinks this is a healthier place for me to be than Laguna. He doesn’t like all the drug things going on there. The long hair scares him. You know how old guys are.
I’m sitting on the bed upstairs while I write this letter. Hard to believe I’m eighteen already. Guess I should be happy but I’m not. I imagine me with a different face. And different hair. And a different name. And a different story behind me. I still love music. Went up to Laguna last night and met that LSD guy at a party. They offered me some and I said no, maybe some other time. Kinda scared of it. Lots of weird people around.
Upstairs Andy stepped into a big bedroom blasted with morning sunlight. Newport Harbor glittered beyond the picture window. Small sailboats rocked in the bright sunshine. The water was polished indigo with a V of white wake widening toward Andy.
White carpet. White walls. White curtains. Prints of flowers and cottages in white frames. Looked like something furnished for an older woman, thought Andy.
The single bed was neatly made. Pink quilt and matching pillowcases and a Raggedy Ann doll upright against one pillow. A low dresser with a mirror. A cane-back rocker. A few pairs of pants and some blouses in the closet. Price tags still on them. One pair of white sneakers with yellow psychedelic daisies on them. Andy turned one over. Never worn. Some T-shirts and tie-dyed stuff in the dresser. Brand new.
Andy opened the bathroom medicine cabinet: deodorant, a can of the same hairspray Meredith’s mother had used. Brand-new bottle of aspirin.
And it hit him that someone had furnished the place the way they thought Janelle would like. But she didn’t want a Raggedy Ann doll or old ladies’ hairspray. Didn’t want this place at all. Her letter to Lynette had said as much.
He found Marci downstairs and asked her how long she’d been cleaning the place.
“Since September, one year ago. Every week.”
“This was Janelle’s apartment, right?”
“Yes. She was nice and spoke Spanish very well. I saw her only two times. Once when I first started. Then a few days before she died. I work here on Fridays.”
Andy nodded. Noted the dishless kitchen counters. The shining sink. The unblemished floor.
“You are not what you say you are,” said Marci. She shook her head but looked down.
Andy admitted he was a reporter. And a friend of Janelle’s. This felt odd. He’d never considered himself a friend when she was living.
“Have you done the kitchen for today?”
“No.”
“Are there ever any dishes to do?”
“No.”
“What about the bed? Is it ever used?”
“Once,” she said. “Friday after she died.”
“The landlord is Mr. Stoltz?”
“I don’t know his name. Slender with a mustache. Thirty-five years. Maybe more. He said nothing to me but hello and goodbye.”
“When?”
Marci looked up at the ceiling while she thought. “Two Fridays ago.”
Two days after they found her in the packinghouse, thought Andy. “And the bed had been used?”
Marci blushed. “Yes,” she said. “It was not made. The sheets and pillowcases were gone. The bedspread and blanket were still here.”
He asked her what the landlord had done when he came here that day.
“He looked out the window upstairs. I was cleaning the bathroom and pretended I didn’t see him. He wiped his eyes.”
Andy thought of the secret man Janelle kept from Jesse Black. Stoltz? Almost certainly. Thought of Janelle’s letter to her sister. Roger doesn’t want anything in return except for me to be cool about it.
Really.
His heart sped up a beat when he remembered the scratches and the scab on Roger Stoltz’s hand that night at his parents’ house. After the funeral.
Janelle, pregnant by Stoltz?
Threatening to keep the child and demanding money?
Offering an abortion for a price?
An argument? A fight?
Jesse Black had said that Janelle was scheduled for an abortion.
Had childless Stoltz wanted her to keep their baby, and she refused?
Andy asked Marci how she knew that Janelle had been murdered.
“Her picture was in the Spanish paper. They called her the Queen with No Head.”
ANDY WENT through a door in the kitchen and into the garage. Small, for one car only. Dank and cool and he could smell the bay stronger. Noted that nobody could see him here if the big overhead garage door was shut. Tried to push it open with his foot but the outside latch was fastened. Found a light switch and turned it on.
Two red Schwinn ten-speeds hung end to end on brackets on one wall. Andy ran his finger along a crossbar. New paint shiny where the dust was gone. Below them a two-person Sears Whirlwind sailboat, tilted lengthwise. A sail-rigged mast hung above the bikes. Two orange life jackets hung from the pedals.
Toys, he thought. Toys for lovers. Never used and left behind.
He heard Lynette’s words: Even in the letters I can tell he wanted her for the same things any man would want her for. But she never did it with him. At least that’s what she wrote, and I believe her.
The concrete floor was clean. Old oil stains, faint and cut by bleach. Andy thought of Janelle’s powder blue Volkswagen. Also provided, along with the apartment and other gifts, by humanitarian Roger Stoltz.
Who was an honored friend of his father.
Who could make his mother smile.
Who fixed David with a job out of seminary and Nick with a letter from Dick Nixon and Clay with a CIA scholarship to a language school the Beckers probably couldn’t even afford and got Clay killed anyway.
Trouble was, Stoltz was in Washington, D.C., the night Janelle died. At least that’s what Stoltz’s congratulatory telegram on breaking the story had implied.
Back in the apartment Andy was surprised to find the telephone working. But why not, he wondered. Everything else was in running order. Even if the girl this was all for lived somewhere else entirely.
Representative Roger Stoltz’s office in Tustin picked up on the second ring. Pleasant female voice.
“This is Andy Becker of the Orange County Journal. We’re doing a story on Congressman Stoltz and need to confirm that he was here in Southern California on Tuesday, October the first, and attended a Republican Party fund-raiser hosted by John Wayne.”
“Oh. Let me see, Mr. Becker. Just a moment.”
Andy stood there twirling the coiled phone cord. Heard paper rustling. Heard Marci running a vacuum upstairs. Then the woman came back on the line.
“No, Mr. Becker. Roger was in Washington that day. The Un-American Activities House Committee had hearings and Roger is a member.”
“Right,” said Andy. “The Commies.”
“Yes, Roger understands that the Communist threat is real. He has proof that there are still some American citizens working against their own government. Some are involved in espionage, others spew propaganda and dissent. By the way, I enjoy your articles very much.”
Andy went upstairs again. Looked out the picture window and heard Marci banging around in the bathroom.
He asked her if she’d ever seen Janelle and the landlord together here.
“No,” she said. “I only saw her two times. Once was a year ago and once was three Fridays ago.”
“What was Janelle doing?
“The first, she was putting some clothes in the dresser. Second time, she was sitting at the kitchen table downstairs with a man. He was very large and had long blond hair and a broken smile. He wore a bright shirt with palm trees on it and short pants
and huaraches with car tires for a bottom. Like they make in Mexico.”
“What is a broken smile?”
“His teeth were broken. A little. Not all the way.”
Cory Bonnett, thought Andy. “What was his name?”
“He didn’t speak to me. She blushed when I came in and didn’t look in my eyes. They looked like they were very…exhausted.”
“And this was when?”
“Friday. Before she died.”
ANDY DROVE to the RoMar Industries headquarters in Tustin. It was across town from the SunBlesst packinghouse, part of a light commercial zone up by State 55.
Marie Stoltz led Andy through the offices, warehouse, and shipping/receiving.
“None of the manufacturing is done here,” she said. She was dark-haired and pretty in a delicate way. Very small. Made Andy think of a Japanese doll. “The process is time-consuming and produces steam and noise. So we do the juicing, distilling, and blending up in Long Beach.”
“Interesting.”
“I’m happy that the Journal wants to do another story on us. Though I wonder why their crack crime reporter is writing it.”
She smiled sweetly.
Andy’s father came bustling into the office from the warehouse. Sleeves up, brow furrowed, clipboard in hand. He still wore the Irish Setters Andy remembered from his childhood. Still had the straight-backed alertness and sharp eyes that had helped him be such a good shotgunner and fisherman.
His eyes widened when he saw Andy. “Son, everything okay?”
“Journal wants another RoMar story,” said Andy. “Focus this time is on Marie, running the company while her husband saves the world from Communism.”
Andy smiled. Got a small one from Marie and none from his father.
“The label machine’s on the fritz again,” he said. “Just in time for the late morning run.”
“Maybe Rollins can fix it,” said Marie.
“I think Rollins broke it,” said Max. “I’ll have to shut down, see what I can do with it. If I can’t get it running right, we’re calling Federated Label again. If they can’t get here today this time, I’ll line up someone else.”
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