And when Isabella said those words to me, I felt my own burden of blame begin to lift, because I had started to wonder, If a person can promote cancer in himself, why not in someone else? Was it my fault? I know a man—sixty years old—who has lost three wives to cancer. He believes himself to be carcinogenic, and if one does the arithmetic, he is. He stopped dating ten years ago, convinced that his love leads only to death. He golfs. He drinks. He lives alone. He has eight dogs.
I heard Izzy's words coming back to me as I watch Corrine preside with guilty intensity over the stove. I kissed her on the head and said, "It's plain old bad luck. It happened to her so it didn't have to happen to Joe, or you, or me."
She looked at me, then nodded slowly. Joe heaved himself up from the table to answer the phone. I looked out the window again to the clear, hot morning and wondered how of this would end.
"For you," said Joe, handing me the cordless. "Erik Wald.”
"Famous enough yet, Erik?"
"Sh-sh-sh-sh. Hello, Russ. I told a white lie."
I said nothing but walked outside to the porch and closed the front door behind me. The sunlight stunned me, but not much as the fact that the Midnight Eye had traced me so easily to the home of Isabella's parents.
"What do you want?"
"I liked the articles. This Citizens' Task Force is an absolutely terrifying posse. I'm so afraid I can hardly show my face. Speaking of faces, that was quite a picture on the front page. I consider it a little unlucky to have driven by at that moment. I wondered if those neighbors had captured my image."
Something tried to dawn on me at that moment, but was in no position to ponder it, trying my best to remember each word, as we talked. I tried to file it
"Everyone in the county knows who to look for."
"Sh-sh-sh-sh... I told you I was terrified. Has Wald completed his profile?"
"No." .
"Because he's so busy becoming legendary."
"It's amazing what you pigs will do for a little ink," I said.
"Why no mention of our conversation? You didn't say anything about my racial cleansing. About the racial facial I'm giving our county."
"One thing at a time."
"You're making the mistake of thinking you have all the time in the world. Maybe I'll make my dramatic statement sooner. Or, there's another possibility...."
"What."
"I've made it already. Sh-sh-sh-sh."
I checked my watch. It was 9:36 A.M.
"Did Winters install the tracer on your home phone?"
"We decided against it. We'd rather talk to you."
"Oh, what a convincing, solid, just... believable lie. I admire you, Russell."
"Believe what you want. The line's clear."
"I know this one is."
"Then what do you want?"
"I want you to tell the county about my racial cleansing, you turd-sucking faggot. I've already told you that. What are you, even stupider than I thought? Do you think I call you for my own entertainment? Don't fuck with me, Monroe!"
"Nobody wants to fuck with you. We want to give you what you want."
"I c-c-can hear Erik Wald's flimsy academic thought process behind you. Did Winters order him to coach you? Is it really you and Wald I'm dealing with?"
"Yes."
"Good. I assumed as much. The idea is to give me enough rope to hang myself. I'll bet that exact cliche was used by the nigger Winters. Now listen, Russell, I expect the following quote to be in your next piece. R-r-ready? 'The goal of the Midnight Eye is to inform all racial minorities that they are no longer welcome in the county.' Shall I repeat that?"
"I've just written it down."
"Read it back."
I did.
"Sh-sh-sh-sh. I feel better. Relieved. Overall, I'm in go spirits today. In fact, I gave some thought to your question about the death of the model—Amber Mae? It's obvious that someone inside the department made a sophomoric attempt to blame that murder on me. Correct?"
"I believe so."
"Do you know who?"
"No," I lied. The idea of using the Eye to help me escape the clutches of Martin Parish seemed ludicrous, but then again, I didn't have many allies. Could the Eye realize something I had not?
"Have you defined the people who knew about my first two statements—the greaser and nigger couples?"
"I think so."
"Well, Russell... enumerate."
"Winters, Parish, Singer, Yee, Karen Schultz. Parish's that’s three or four people. Maybe the forensic crew put them together—that's half a dozen more. Wald suspected early, but was out of the official loop—I talked to him about it." "Um-hm."
I listened for background noise but heard none. I turn and looked through the front window to where Joe and Corrine both stared back at me, their faces mute and curious.
"And you, Russell? In or out of the loop?"
"Out."
"They were awfully slow to admit what was going on, weren't they?"
"Yes."
"That's one of the reasons I chose to talk to you, you know. Cops are so... bureaucratic, so... sluggish. Tell me, do any of the people you mentioned have a history with this Amber?"
"Parish and Wald."
"And, of course, you."
"Yes."
"Explain to me any monetary considerations. Her estate, to be specific."
I told the Eye of the basic dispensations of Amber Mae's fortunes, should an untimely death befall her. He listened without interrupting.
"Forget Winters, Singer, and Schultz for obvious reasons," he said finally. "Dismiss Wald, too. He's an academic, a dilettante, a coward. The Captain of Detectives, Martin Parish, would be a very interesting possibility. Sh-sh-sh-sh. It's so much fun to be a cop!"
"Maybe you should join the Task Force."
"Get a little cap and shirt! What self-aggrandizing silliness for Winters. Exactly what I'd expect from a nigger—always style over substance."
I said nothing.
"Tell me, Russell, are there maybe, just maybe... intimations from some quarters that you are a suspect?"
"Yes."
"Promoted by, let me guess, Martin Parish?"
"Yes."
"Oh, this is getting rich. You might have a hard time of it, because Parish could write, direct, and produce a convincing case against you—practically out of thin air."
The Eye's words eerily recalled those of Parish, spoken not twelve hours previously, as he orchestrated the grim funeral of Alice Fultz.
"I've considered that."
"How's Isabella?"
"That's not your business."
"She is of... Mexican blood, isn't she?"
"If you touch her, I'll kill you. That is a promise."
"Testy, testy. Sh-sh-sh-sh. Look, Russell, get that statement into the paper tomorrow or I'll make your life so miserable you won't be able to stand it. Quote me, word for word. Run my picture again if you think it will do any good. Winters will get a call today at noon. That's two hours from now. You might want to be there for it."
The Eye hung up. I listened to the clean disconnection, the ensuing loaded silence.
I felt invaded here, in what I had assumed was the safe of Joe and Corrine's home. The Eye had tracked me there surely as if he'd been watching me from above. Was it luck, did he have a surer way to following my movements? A hot wash of sweat broke over me. I stepped back inside to the cool of the house.
I helped Isabella into her wheelchair.
"Y-y-you're quiet," she said.
"Thinking."
"That's a t-t-terrible voice."
"What voice, Izzy?"
"On the t-t-tape that fell your pocket out." I cursed myself for my carelessness. The last thing I wanted to add to the miseries in Isabella's mind were the words of the Midnight Eye.
"I'm so sorry, Izzy. I didn't want you to—"
"I think h-h-he's been to Laguna C-c-canyon. He's s-s- seen Our L-l-Iady of the Canyon."
I settled her into the
chair.
"What?"
"He's seen her, Russ."
"How can you tell that? What do you think he said?"
She grinned at me a little slyly now. "M-m-maybe I'll make you wait t-t-till after dinner."
My head had begun to feel light and my heart was speeding up. "No, girl. Please... I need to know how you know that."
"Kay-o! He says right there on the t-t-tape that he's s-s- seen the bright cunt woman."
I remembered the nonsense phrase: "C-c-cun seed brat cun wormin..."
"Can see the bright cunt woman?"
"R-r-russell. It's obvious. It takes someone s-s-screwed up as me to underplay someone as screwed up as h-h-him. Understand him."
"He's been in the canyon," I said.
"You heard it first h-h-here. It's the Eye, isn't it?"
My mind was still reeling from Isabella's easy understanding of the Eye's speech.
"Yes, love. It's the Eye. And he's seen our Lady."
"You should put me in the c-c-case."
"You're hired, Lieutenant."
"Chief."
"Okay, Chief."
I had breakfast with my wife and in-laws. I don't think I'd ever been so thankful just to have them around. My hands were shaking.
"Are y-y-you coming back tonight?"
"Of course, love."
"G-g-good. I have a farmhouse to ask you."
Our gently blank looks all closed in on Isabella. She glanced at each of us in turn, then down at her plate. A tear rolled off her cheek and her shoulders shook.
"You know what I m-m-meanl"
"A favor," I said. "I know exactly what you mean."
A few minutes later, I asked Joe to walk me to my car. tried to explain to him, in the calmest way I could, that the Midnight Eye had just called his house. Joe nodded in his stoic fashion, always a man for whom no task of love can be too great.
"I'm the one he wants to talk to," I said. "I don't think he'll call here again. What I'm saying is, be very, very careful.
"I got two shotguns and two deer guns and two pistols.
"Keep them... available. Does Corrine know how to us them?"
"The pistols, okay."
"One of you stay up. Don't let everyone sleep at the same
time."
"No. We been doing that for Izzy, anyway."
"You're a good man, Joe."
“She is my only girl.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The bedlam at the Sheriff's Department had gotten worse. The General Services people clogged the elevators, heading down into the bowels of the building to revive, allegedly, the dead air-conditioning system. Random sheets of drywall had been pried away to expose the ducting system, in front of which the orange-clad techs stood looking in with arms crossed, postures of stubborn defeat. Against the far wall of the Investigations section, the Citizens' Task Force phone bank was up and running, staffed by four volunteers in blue T-shirts with images of Kimmy Wynn on the front. The dicks came and went, giving wide berth to the phone-bank workers, as if they suffered something contagious. Reporters lingered, unable to restrict themselves to the pressroom, clearly ignored by the dicks. Karen Schultz, gripping a bulky Records file against her body, tried to direct them back downstairs.
I proceeded down to the lab, where I found Chet Singer using an electron microscope on a piece of fiber left behind at the Fernandez scene. I handed him the tape I'd taken from Martin box of evidence, which Isabella had so beautifully decoded.
"Can you tell me what's wrong with this?"
Chet looked at me rather dolorously, taking the cassette in his large hand. "The Eye again?"
"Maybe," I said. "I think you should hear it. Only you.'
"Then I shall. I will tell Karen to fetch you when I've had a chance. You certainly look bedraggled today, Russell."
"Long night."
"Ah, I can imagine."
Winters, Parish, and Wald were positioned around the desk in Dan's office when I walked in. Between Wald and Parish directly across from Winters, sat a woman I'd never seen before. She was in her early sixties, with stiff strawberry blond wave of hair, bloodshot blue eyes, and a plain, not-quite-pretty face. She dabbed one eye with a tissue after looking up at me.
"Russell Monroe, meet Mary Ing. She's identified the photograph we ran in the papers. Our suspect is her son."
Wald grinned at me and nodded. Parish regarded me with a particularly hostile stare. Although Dan's voice was calm, I could see the satisfaction in his eyes.
Mary Ing offered her hand and I shook it. She sniffed into the tissue. "I'm still not positive."
"It's been eight years since you've seen him," said Winters. "We understand."
Erik leaned across the desk, picked up a small stack of snapshots, and handed them to me. They were all of the same man—in one shot, he was just a sullen boy. The last two picture bore dates: 12-24-82 and 12-25-80. The subjects were identical, a male Caucasian of varying age, in the last three photo graphs wearing his red-brown hair quite long, with a full bear and mustache. He looked like the man in the video.
"Billy," said Mary quietly. "William Fredrick Ing."
"He's got a sheet," proclaimed Parish. "I've had a chance to study it. Interesting stuff. Schultz is burning copies right now."
Karen came through the door, lugging the bulky file. "Schultz is done burning copies," she said as she strode to Winter's desk and plopped the bundle down in front of him. "Gad, the media is a pain in the ass."
Wald introduced Karen Schultz to Mary Ing. A moment of silence covered the office, then Dan spoke. "Mrs. Ing, you might not want to be around for this. It's official business, and there's nothing in Billy's file you don't know about already. But if you'd like to, we want you to stay. Anything you can add to what we have might help. It's very possible, Mrs. Ing, that you may have already saved lives by what you've done."
Mary Ing stroked the wrinkles from the lap of her patterned cotton dress. "Of course." She glanced very briefly at me, then lowered her blue eyes. "I'll stay and do what I can."
Karen handed a file copy to each of us.
Winters nodded to Parish. "Martin, walk us through this— you had time to study it. Karen, keep Russell here on the straight and narrow."
I got out my micro recorder, rewound the tape, and turned it on. I got out my notepad and pen. Mary Ing looked at me with sorry curiosity.
"William Fredrick Ing," said Parish. "Male Caucasian, thirty-nine, six-two, two ten. LKA Dana Point, but it's four years old and patrol's already checked it. Nobody there has ever heard of him. History of epilepsy since childhood, alcoholism as an adult, some uh... family problems. The raps seem random until you get them together for a long view back. Stack up the fact that he's killed eight people in the last two weeks and you can read his sheet like a 'how to create a killer' manual."
"Don't quote him on that," said Karen.
I followed the sheet as Parish read. Ing made his debut in the juvenile justice system on July 14, 1966, at the age twelve, for "hunting" two girls with a BB gun at a junior h school campus. For reasons unfathomable, the girls had tried to hide in a glass phone booth. Ing had pinned them down with. BB fire for an hour before some older boys caught him, broke the gun and Ing's nose. The riddled phone booth cost Ing’s mother eighty-nine dollars to repair. Neither girl was hit or hurt. The girls' families didn't press. Billy was counseled at Juvenile Hall—six sessions—then the charges were dropped.
He was back a year later, when neighbors in his Santa Ana neighborhood told police that their pets were disappeared and that "Crazy Billy" was their suspect. Billy denied know anything about the animals. The headless carcasses of the dogs and six cats were exhumed from shallow graves in a nearby orange grove a month later. Police found the head: "crudely preserved with gasoline and newspaper stuffing "--- a makeshift lean-to beneath the bridge of a flood-control ditch. Also found in the lean-to were a vise clamped to a piece scrap plywood, a blood-clotted coping saw, two containers pet snack
s—one for dogs and one for cats—and a bloodstained Nelson Foxx model Louisville Slugger baseball bat. The Santa Ana cops could find no evidence that the lair "belonged" to Billy although the same flood-control channel ran directly behind his house, which was less than half a mile away. It also ran along the grove where the bodies were found. Following Ing's Jul 6 interview with the cops and the dismantling of the lean-to, no more pets disappeared from the neighborhood.
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