Pennines on a Dead Woman's Eyes

by Marcia Muller

For a moment the crowd remained silent. Then a buzzing began—primarily in the area where the press was seated. I watched Jack and Judy. He turned toward her, spoke in low tones. She listened, the shook her head vehemently.

  I glanced at the prosecution’s table. Stameroff gazed at the empty bench, hands laced in front of him. His eyes were narrowed, as if he was weighing the consequences of withdrawing against those of proceeding. After a bit, he turned his head and looked seekingly at Judy.

  She was clutching Jack’s arm, speaking swiftly, her face grim and determined. Jack whispered something, and she looked over at her adoptive father. I couldn’t see her expression, but it made Stameroff turn away. Judy spoke some more to Jack, and finally he nodded in resignation.

  The buzz of voices escalated throughout the courtroom. Ebbed, then escalated again. Stameroff, Jack and Judy all stared at the bench now. When Judge Valle returned, the voices cut off and we rose. After we were seated, the judge’s eyes swept the crowd; then he directed his attention to the defense table. “Mr. Stuart, what is you decision?”

  “The defense is ready to proceed, Your Honor.”

  “Justice Stameroff?”

  “Ready for the prosecution, Your Honor.”

  Joseph Stameroff rose, approached the jury box, and began to speak. I listened in amazement as –without the aid of notes—he began reciting words I’d reread only two nights before in the Benedict trial transcript.

  Apparently he was so confident of his original case that he planned to reprise it verbatim.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I watched Stameroff, listened carefully. The words certainly sounded the same as those in the transcript; even his gestures had a studied quality, as if he remembered exactly how he’d moved his hands and body thirty-six long years before. It was like watching the enactment of a play that I’d only recently read.

  To my right, Judy sat white-knuckled, staring at the man who had raised her. Her face seemed varnished, lines of strain cutting deep. Did Stameroff realize what he was doing to the daughter out of the ashes of this old tragedy? Did he realize?

  Did he care?

  I couldn’t take this any longer. I scribbled a brief note, passed it to Jack, and got out of there.

  In Civic Center Plaza a chill wind blew. It had swept away the last tendrils of fog, leaving a glary white overcast. A few ragged souls huddled under the gnarled plane trees and on benches by the reflecting pool, but otherwise the area had that deserted Saturday-morning look. I turned toward Market, deciding to walk a few blocks to Natoma Street, where the Loomis photographic studio was located.

  I’d called first thing this morning and spoken with Neil Loomis, daughter of the Institute’s original photographer, who had inherited the business upon the death of her father. She’d be there all day working on a rush job, she told me, so I could stop by at my convenience—preferably after ten. She sounded grumpy and unfriendly, but I was hoping that was just an early morning mood.

  Natoma is one of the many alleys that crisscross SoMa—as the South of Market district has been dubbed. Most are lined with warehouses, automotive shops, and small business concerns, interspersed with the occasional surviving Victorian residence. The block of Natoma between Tenth and Eleventh streets was entirely commercial; I found the blue door Nell Loomis had described halfway down, next to a TV repair shop.

  The woman who answered the buzzer was about my age; her carroty hair was cropped close to her head, she wore no makeup except for her dark green eye shadow, and a rubber apron protected her jeans and T-shirt. She barely glanced at me, merely motioned me into the gloom behind her. Then she slammed the door and secured it with a pair of dead bolts.

  “Damn precautions,” she said, stepping around me. “You can’t even leave the door open while you go out to get something from your car two feet away. City won’t do anything about the crime problem, so who pays? People like me who are struggling to get by. Watch that step there.

  The dark hallway led into the studio: a large room of white-washed brick, with a sofa, desk, and chairs in one corner and the rest of it an open space cluttered with lights and tripods and rolled backdrops and a variety of props. In the middle sat a display of canned artichoke hearts such as you’d find in a supermarket.

  Loomis saw me looking at it and said, “The rush job I mentioned. National ad campaign, and it’s got to be off by Fedex tonight.”

  “You mainly do advertising work?”

  She perched on the edge of the desk and waved me toward the sofa. “I mainly do anything that’ll bring in rent money. Don’t get as much ad work as I’d like. Pretty much I’m stuck with the kind of crap my dad did—weddings, parties, special events.”

  “The Institute for North American Studies is one of your steady clients?”

  Her mouth twisted disagreeably. “Not anymore. I did my last job for them when they dedicated that building on the Embarcadero. Bastards can overextend themselves by moving into a place worth millions, but they can’t be bothered to pay my piddly little invoices. If I don’t get the money soon, I’m turning it over to a collection agency.”

  “How much do they owe you?”

  “Thousands. They claimed they were waiting for a big contract and would pay up soon, but I didn’t get a dime. Look, what is it you want? I need to get back to the darkroom.”

  “How far back do your business and negative files on the Institute go?”

  “All the way to when my dad opened his studio in fifty-one. Why?”

  “Would it be possible to look up some work he did for them? I showed her the photo I’d found in Melissa Cardinal’s rabbit vase and also explained about the banquet and reception for Dulles.

  Loomis frowned. “It’s possible to look that stuff up, yes, but not today. The files’re all boxed.” She motioned toward the high ceiling, and for the first time I noticed a railed loft at the far end of the space. “My old studio on Minna Street was hit hard during the big quake. Took me six months to find this place. Since then I’ve been busting my butt just to make ends meet, and I’ve never gotten around to setting up the files again.”

  “How much would you charge to locate the files and negatives that I need?”

  Loomis thought, running her thumb over her lower lip. “My hourly rate, anyway. But this rush job—”

  “I understand that, but couldn’t you take some time—say, while your prints are drying?”

  She considered.

  “I’ll double your hourly rate.”

  “In that case, okay.” She stood up. “Let me do a couple of things in the darkroom, and then I’ll climb up and give it a try.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it. Do you mind if I use your phone while I’m waiting?”

  As Nell Loomis disappeared into her darkroom, I sat down at the desk and called Cathy Potter. When I identified myself, she said, “Sharon, where’ve you been? Keyes Development has agreed to let you tour Seacliff property, but they want to know when.”

  “I’d like to see it tonight, but here’s the catch: I want to bring a number of other people along.” I explained about my idea of moving the trial to the estate.

  “I don’t know if they’ll go for that. There’s sure to be publicity, and reminding people that a murder happened on a property isn’t such a great way to sell it.”

  “They’ll be publicity anyway. If they cooperate, it might actually help to interest a buyer who isn’t squeamish.”

  “Maybe,” she said skeptically. “Call me back within the hour, okay?”

  In five minute Nell Loomis emerged from her darkroom and climbed up into the loft. I called after her, offering to help, but she said he insurance wouldn’t cover it if something happened to me. So I remained on the sofa, watching her silhouette move among the stacked cartons, backlit by a single bare bulb. It took her about half an hour, but finally she climbed back down, clutching a thick file folder.

  “I can’t find the order on the print you have, and there’s something odd about the order for that b
anquet and reception,” she told me.

  “What?”

  “The order sheet shows that the prints and negatives were to be destroyed.”

  “Why?”

  “Doesn’t say.”

  “Who made that request?”

  “Doesn’t say that, either.” She showed me the order sheet. It was a simple form with blanks to be filled in for the number of prints and their sizes. Across it someone had written: “Destroy prints and negs” and the date – June 25, 1956, three days after Cordy McKittridge’s murder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The witness was being badgered by the man who had raised her. Stameroff loomed aggressively over Judy, jabbing his index finger at her while he posed his questions. As I came down the aisle, Jack said, “Objection. Counsel is arguing with his own witness.”

  “Sustained.”

  I slipped into the seat reserved for me. Stameroff stepped back from the witness box, executed a half turn, and looked ruefully at the jury. I knew that trick: a glance that said, “What am I to do?” It elicited little sympathy, however; this panel was far too experienced to fall for prosecutorial theatrics.

  Stameroff realized his error and quickly returned his attention to his daughter. “Let us try,” he said, “to confine this testimony to what you actually saw on the night of the murder. As you were saying, your mother had blood on the front of her dress—”

  The old man had forgotten none of the sneaky ploys of his trade. Jack said, “Objection. Witness made no such statement.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Allow me to rephrase. What was your mother’s appearance when she returned to the house?”

  Judy’s expression became confused.

  “Miss Benedict?”

  She didn’t reply. I leaned forward, watching her intently. There had been something about the question. . . .

  After a moment she said, “She had stains on her dress. They were ink, red ink.”

  “How do you know they were red ink?”

  “She told the police—”

  “Miss Benedict, confine yourself to what you saw.”

  “I’m sorry.” Still confused, she looked to Jack for help. He was studying a document on the table in front of him.

  “Now,” Stameroff went on, “you and your mother were the only people present on the estate that night—is that correct?”

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  The justice frowned. “You don’t know?”

  “I’ve remembered standing at the window of my room, and something being below in the darkness—”

  “Something or someone?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Could this . . . thing merely be the product of an overactive imagination?”

  “Objection!”

  “I’ll allow the question.”

  “No, it was real. I remember—”

  “Yes?”

  Judy was silent.

  Stameroff leaned toward her, placing his hand on the edge of the witness box. “Isn’t it a fact, “he said, “that you remember very little of what happened that night?”

  “I . . .”

  “Isn’t it a fact that aside from the bloodstains on—”

  “Objection!”

  “I’ll rephrase. Isn’t it a fact that aside from the red stains on your mother’s dress, you remember very little indeed.”

  “I remember . . .”

  “What do you remember, Miss Benedict? What?

  Judy hung her head. She was shaking—from rage, I thought.

  Stameroff said, “I’ll withdraw the question. Now I would like to move forward to the night of July seventh—”

  Judge Valle interrupted. “Since this portion of the testimony will undoubtedly be lengthy and it is now nearly noon, a lunch break is in order. Court will recess until one-thirty.”

  After Valle had left the courtroom, I slipped around the rail to speak with Jack. Judy stood in the witness box, her angry gaze riveted on Stameroff, who was gathering papers at his table. He straightened and started for the aisle, and I came face-to-face with him. His expression showed no satisfaction, only a sadness and something else that hinted of depression. His eyes met mine, a long measured look; then he nodded and stepped aside. I joined Jack at the defense table.

  “It’s going quickly,” I said.

  “Yes, he whipped right through the first few witnesses, and he’s playing it pretty much by the transcript.”

  “Did you speak with Wald and Valle about moving the trial to the crime scene?”

  “At the recess. Looks as if it’s a go. You hear about getting access yet?”

  “The broker’s still working on it.” I took a sheaf of notes that I’d made while reading through the police files in the early hours of the morning. “You may want to look at these in preparation for tomorrow.”

  He nodded and stuffed them into his inside pocket.

  Judy came up to the table, her lips still taut with anger. I said quickly, “I’ve got to talk with Hank.”

  My boss was sitting in the last row of the courtroom. When I sat down next to him, he commented, “Stameroff’s giving Judy the hostile-witness treatment.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, she is hostile. Unlike when she was a child and an easy lead, she now has a mind of her own. I’m convinced he controlled her original testimony, maybe even fed her some of it.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.” Hank watched the remaining spectators leave the courtroom, then stood and went to look out the window. “I made those inquiries that I promised you.”

  “And?”

  “Stameroff’s been bought, several times.”

  “Who told you that?”

  He shook his head, picked up one of the poles used to open and close the old-fashioned windows, and hefted it experimentally. “All I can say is that they’re good sources, ones I trust.”

  “Who was he bought by?”

  “No one whose name you’d recognize.” Hank sighted along the pole, made motions as if he were a javelin thrower. “The real powers-that-be keep a low profile. Often our elected officials aren’t sure who they are. And they’re almost never held accountable. Makes them damned hard to fight.”

  “I used to think theories like that were just paranoia. Not anymore.”

  “Yeah.” Hank jabbed angrily at the air with his pretend spear. “Anyway, Stameroff was promised the district attorney’s job for a victory in the Benedict case, and that gave him a taste for trading favors. He bartered his way right on up to the state supreme court.”

  “So why did he involve himself in this mock trial? Common sense should have told him it would only draw attention to what he did. The Tribunal may be publicity-hungry, but it doesn’t really get that much press; if Stameroff weren’t part of this, it would only rate a column in Monday’s paper.”

  Hank propped the pole up next to the window, looking thoughtful. “There’s got to be something very damaging that he’s trying to keep under wraps, but I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Me, either.” I stood, and Hank followed me out of the empty courtroom. “Did you see Bart Wallace leave?” I asked.

  “The homicide inspector? As a matter of fact, he and his partner asked me to tell you they’d be at Tommy’s Joynt. If you don’t’ mind, I’ll go over there with you. It’s been years since I had some of their buffalo stew.”

  Tommy’s Joynt on Van Ness Avenue has long been a San Francisco institution. Garishly painted with slogans and ads on the outside, noisy and comfortable on the inside, it’s been serving some of the best food and drink around to both locals and tourists for decades. Hank and I had to fight our way through a crowd before we found the inspectors at a table near the back. Joslyn was wading into a thick pastrami sandwich but from the appearance of the glass of dark liquid n front of him, Wallace was drinking his lunch.

  Hank went to place or orders, and I sat down next to Adah. “So what do you think so far?” I asked.

  “I think Stameroff is a
grade-A shit,” Bart said. “If the son of a bitch ever had any humanity, he lost it long ago.”

  “Other than that,” Adah added. “Bart thinks Stameroff’s a hell of a nice guy.”

  “Any progress in the Cardinal investigation?” I asked her.

  “Zilch. Nobody in the neighborhood saw nothin’, nobody heard nothin’. They—surprise!—just don’t want to get involved.”

  I glanced at Wallace. He wasn’t paying any attention: his eyes searched the depths of his drink as if it contained the answers to the world’s problems. I supposed that was as good a place as any to look for them.

  Adah said, “I do have one piece of news for you. NCIC actually came through on my inquiry on Roger Woods.”

  “My God.” The FBI crime information network was notoriously slow. “What did they say?”

  “Woods file is classified.”

  It was the last thing I’d expected to hear. “What do you suppose that means?”

  “Could be any number of things. He might have been involved in some sort of covert work, or been placed in a protected witness program.”

  “You mean he might have been FBI or an informant?”

  “Or had something to do with any one of a number of other agencies or operations.”

  Hank returned with coffee and bowls of buffalo stew. I stared at mine, realized I’d lost my appetite. “You know,” I said to Joslyn, “I have an idea about Roger Woods. That Cedar Rapids couple in Cardinal’s address book—Mary and Rod. Could you have misread the name? Maybe it’s actually Mary and Rog.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Have you called them?”

  “Tried to. There wasn’t any answer.”

  “Why don’t you try again?”

  She frowned. “You think Roger Woods has been hiding in Cedar Rapids for thirty-some years?”

  “It’s as good a place as any. Besides, maybe he’s not hiding.”

  Josyln nodded and tossed her napkin on the table. I stood so she could squeeze past me. As I sat down, Wallace muttered something, still staring at his drink.

  “What did you say?” Hank asked him.

  “I said, the bastard’s going to go on and on untouched, no matter what anyone does.”