by Jan Burke
When Donovan refused to acknowledge these acts for what they were, she escalated her attempts to get a combination of revenge on him and his attention. If, in the evening, she felt displeased with him—and near the end of the marriage, she so often was—she would set her alarm to go off the next morning with loud music and a buzzer an hour before the time for which his own was set. He would try to fall back to sleep, but she would pour cereal in a bowl and eat in a manner that he thought worthy of a chimpanzee annoyed with its keepers—she would cause the bowl to ring in a maddening arrhythmic staccato as she tapped her spoon against its sides.
When this failed to get a response, she prolonged her morning campaign. After breakfast, she would enter the bathroom off the master bedroom. She would flush the toilet, sing off-key in the shower, and just when the water was off and he thought he might get a minute of peace, she would turn on her blow dryer.
Once Donovan was up, she would wait until he was in the shower to run the washing machine and the dishwasher, so that the hot water was gone within seconds.
Donovan let her get away with it for a while. One morning, he rose from the bed and strode naked into the kitchen, took the bowl of cereal from her, and calmly dumped it down the sink. He said, “You should stop this little warfare. You don’t know who you are up against.”
He had not raised his voice, or lifted a hand to her, but there must have been something in his face or his stance that conveyed a little of his real nature to her, because she shrank back from him. He could not suppress—or hide, in his state of undress—his arousal when her eyes widened, her lower lip quivered, her breath quickened in fear.
Disgusted with himself, he left the kitchen and took a shower.
When he emerged from it, she had left the house.
The first thing he had noticed was the quiet.
She filed for divorce, did not ask for anything from him—he had bought the house before he met her, but she might have had a go at his military pension—and she never came back to retrieve so much as an article of clothing. He did not fight it, attempt to reconcile, or seek a new partner. He had already decided that marriage was not the answer he had hoped it would be.
He had tried it twice. The first experiment had failed mostly because of mutual immaturity, but over time, he was sure, the result would have been the same. She had protested when he went into the service, claiming she couldn’t stand knowing he was in so much danger. Shortly after he shipped out, she filed for divorce. Ironically, getting on the freeways in L.A. proved to be more dangerous to her than his military duties were to him—after the divorce was final, and long before he returned home, her mother wrote to tell him that she had died in a car accident.
He turned his thoughts away from her, back to the quiet.
No, marriage was not for him. If he ever changed his mind about that, he knew he would have no difficulty finding a woman willing to be his wife. Without entirely understanding why, Donovan knew he was considered to be attractive. He did understand, because he worked at it, that he was in excellent physical condition. He had a good job, and knew how to be personable. But he didn’t want to think about any woman in the way he had started to think about his most recent ex-wife, so he would probably stay unmarried.
Donovan’s ex thought he didn’t know where she lived now. She was wrong about that.
So far, he had been able to control his impulses in that direction.
Self-mastery meant you didn’t have to become what certain people predicted you would become. Self-mastery meant you, yourself—and not your past—defined you. Self-mastery was the key to his happiness.
It was time to leave the house and earn his wages. He did not like to look in mirrors, but neatness was important to him, so he compromised by studying the uniform carefully and merely glancing at his own face in the reflection.
He savored the quiet of the house for another moment, then it was time to go out into the noisy world.
No sooner was he out the door than his personal cell phone rang. Caller ID blocked.
He took the call but didn’t speak.
“I love that you’re so cautious,” a man’s voice said.
When he still didn’t speak, the man laughed.
“Did you see the television interview with his doctor?”
“No,” Donovan said and considered hanging up. He knew he wouldn’t. He was angry with himself for his curiosity. It made him weak. It kept him listening.
“I didn’t think so. The doctor spoke the code phrase—innocently, of course. He mentioned the marathon.”
“Coincidence.” He would hang up. He would hang up now …
“You don’t believe that any more than I do. It’s time to begin.”
Donovan stayed silent. He felt a little queasy. He wasn’t ready for this, even though the news about Nicholas Parrish being up and walking had left him expecting it.
“Don’t let it upset you—we are what we are.”
He winced, thinking, I’m not what you are, but said, “I’m not upset.”
“Good. I’m going to contact the other one.”
“That might not be wise. What if it isn’t really starting?”
“Cold feet?”
It would not do to let the caller play these games.
“Call me again when you really have something to say,” Donovan said quietly and hung up on him.
SIX
I first heard about Marilyn Foster as a missing person case.
Marilyn Foster’s husband managed the swing shift at a manufacturing plant forty miles from Las Piernas. Dwayne Foster routinely arrived at home well after midnight, ate the light meal his wife left waiting for him, took a shower downstairs, and wound down with a beer or two while he watched TV with a headset on before going up to bed.
He got caught up in an old movie in the early hours of Wednesday, so it was about three in the morning when he went upstairs. To his surprise, the bed was empty. He called his wife’s name, wandered through the house looking for her, feeling a mixture of annoyance and fear. He went into the garage. Her car was missing.
He tried calling her cell phone. He heard it ringing and discovered her purse still in the kitchen.
He called the police.
“It’s not a crime to be missing,” I once heard an old cop say.
“It’s not a crime to be dead, either,” I replied, “but you still investigate when someone calls to report a body.”
What he had said, though, is true—as far as it goes—and he was only expressing the frustration that many in law enforcement feel when it comes to missing persons cases. All too often they use their time, energy, and resources trying find a missing adult, only to discover they’re not looking into a crime. As it turns out, many adults who go missing just want to escape whatever they’ve gotten themselves into—debts, bad relationships, boredom, overbearing families, abuse, you name it. The police run into that so often, it leads to a kind of cynicism that in turn leads to a lack of investigative effort.
In recent years, Las Piernas has taken missing persons cases more seriously. The Express has always given those cases special attention, which has brought some pressure to bear on law enforcement. Nick Parrish, I suppose, brought a different kind of pressure to solve missing persons cases.
So the Las Piernas Police Department called a news conference late Wednesday morning. Mark Baker was on the road, sent up north to cover the Parrish stories, so John sent me out to it and asked me to try to get an interview with Dwayne Foster.
The public information officer for the LPPD handed out several photos of a thin thirty-eight-year-old woman with short, dark hair and blue eyes. Although there were no signs of struggle at her home, they believed she might be in danger. Their press release included photos of her blue Chevy Malibu, gave a plate number for the car, and mentioned a fact that made me understand why they might have been quicker to move on this case than on some others.
Marilyn Foster was a type 1 diabetic. She was dependent on insulin, and had not
taken her insulin supply with her.
If Dwayne Foster was suspected of doing away with his wife, the police weren’t giving any indication of that. They might be keeping an eye on him, or have information I didn’t, but from everything I could see, Dwayne Foster was devoted to his wife, genuinely worried about her, and hadn’t a clue where she might be.
He agreed to my request to meet at his house and tell me more about Marilyn, hoping my story would increase interest in her case.
Dwayne had known Marilyn since high school, although they hadn’t dated then. “She was kind of wild back then,” he said. “I think because she had to take insulin and all, she wanted to prove something. She used to drink a lot, which was really dangerous for her. I don’t know, she wanted to show everybody that she could be just like any other teenager, I guess. Wanted people to like her. Every kid does, right? Anyway, she got pregnant by this older guy, dropped out, and went to one of those places where girls get cared for if they agree to give the baby up for adoption. I guess because of the diabetes, the whole thing was even harder on her.” He paused. “Later, when we tried, she kept having miscarriages. Last one damned near killed her, and we decided maybe we’d adopt but never actually took the steps to do it. She kind of has funny feelings about adoption. I know she still regrets giving the baby away.” He paused. “She always feels sad on his birthday. He’d be twenty-two now. She’s tried to locate him and joined a couple of online groups that help people connect up with their adopted kids.” He wiped at his eyes. “That’s another reason I know she didn’t run away! She’s waiting for that kid to show up here. If he shows up now, what do I tell him?”
The question caught me off guard, especially because apparently it wasn’t rhetorical—he seemed sincerely to want an answer. “Tell him what you told me,” I said.
After a moment, he nodded. “I’ll welcome him. I’ll see if he’ll stay here until she’s found. I think his birth father was probably an A-number-one Asshole, but that doesn’t mean he is. Shit, my own dad was a real piece of work. Nothing dooms you, you know?”
“I agree. Any chance Marilyn’s old flame is still around?”
“No. He wasn’t a flame really, just a one-night stand from what she told me. I mean, the dude had to know she was underage. But she’d never tell anyone who he was. Her parents tried really hard to get that out of her, but she always said she’d been drunk and didn’t know who he was. She knew, though. Once I joked that if she found the kid, she might end up reconnecting with his dad. She told me there was no chance of that, and not just because the kid’s dad was in prison for life but because she had wised up since then, and I was the only one for her. I asked her how she could know he was in prison, but she got all upset and said she never wanted to talk about it. Ever.”
He grinned ruefully. “When Marilyn says something in that tone, you don’t argue. Besides, I didn’t want her to think I thought less of her. I never have. Never. She’s the only one for me, too.”
“So, she hasn’t been acting strange in any way lately? No tension, no odd behavior?”
“No. Not at all.” He looked me square in the eye and said, “She’s not cheating on me.”
“I’m not suggesting that,” I said and meant it. Although I’d known plenty of people who had been surprised by the devilry of supposed spousal saints, most of them had deliberately closed their eyes before the moment of revelation. Nothing about Dwayne said he had his eyes closed. And the more he told me about his wife, the less it seemed likely that she had been looking for an escape. I’d have to check that out with other people who knew her, though. For now, I asked, “Any new acquaintances? Strangers approaching her? People hanging around the neighborhood who haven’t been around before?”
“Not that I know of. And we talk. She’d tell me. Police asked about that, too.”
“So life has just gone on as usual lately? Nothing out of the ordinary?”
He hesitated.
“What?” I coaxed.
He shook his head. “It’s so stupid. It doesn’t have anything to do with her being gone.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He seemed embarrassed. “Hell, she’s going to kill me for telling you as much as I have already.”
I waited.
“The other night,” he said. “Not the night she went missing, but the night before? She did do something that’s not like her. But it was just forgetfulness, that’s all. I didn’t even mention it to her.”
“What?” I asked again.
“You know, when she’s upstairs asleep, she turns the fan on—makes white noise, so she probably didn’t hear anything, or it wouldn’t have happened. But I came home, usual time, and here’s the garden hose, turned on and running. Like we’re building a pond in the backyard. Please don’t print that in the paper, okay?”
SEVEN
I talked to Marilyn Foster’s co-workers at the dentist’s office where she was employed as a receptionist. She was a reliable worker. The dentist and his wife, who was a hygienist in his office, looked upon Marilyn almost as a daughter. They were sure she would have confided any troubles to them, and had no indications of unhappiness in her marriage. She was the last person, they said, who would ever simply disappear.
I talked to her mother and sister, who lived in the San Fernando Valley. Again, no sign that her life was troubled, that she had a secret romance going, that she was feeling restless or wanted a change of scenery.
The contacts I had at the police department didn’t have a lot to say beyond what had been said at the press conference—no leads, hoping that any publicity the Express could give the case would help to generate those. It was clear they didn’t think this was a voluntary disappearance.
I wrote up the story and tried to pull myself together for a completely different kind of press conference—the one Wrigley had arranged for late that afternoon. As I walked downstairs with John Walters, he glanced at me and said, “You look like a cold slice of hell on stale toast.”
“Always so kind,” I said.
That made him laugh, not something he was doing very often these days, so I had a smile on my face when we went into the room Wrigley had designated for the event—a large space that had once been used for staff meetings. That was in the days before you could fit the staff into a phone booth and still have room to dance.
I was relieved to see that while the turnout wasn’t embarrassingly low—local television, a few local papers, two radio stations, and a couple of online news outlets—the room wasn’t crowded enough to cause me to panic. All the same, the subject wasn’t one I wanted to talk about. I prefer being one of the people asking the questions in these situations.
Wrigley gave the introduction, putting on that public persona that actually makes him appear serious and competent. Anyone who looked hard enough could see that he was enjoying himself.
I wasn’t too surprised to notice that Ethan had left his desk in the newsroom and managed to slip into a chair in the back row, where he alternately tried to signal me with an occasional thumbs-up and glared ferociously at anyone who asked a question that he deemed out of line. It was enough to amuse me into remaining calm.
After the Q & A ended, Wrigley stayed behind to chat up some of those who lingered. John, Ethan, and I headed back upstairs. I heard someone rushing down the stairwell just as John was asking Ethan if he had enjoyed making an ass out of himself for the entertainment of the competition. Lydia came to a halt on the landing above us. “They found her,” she said, looking shaken.
“Who?” Ethan asked.
“Marilyn Foster.”
“Alive?” I asked, knowing the answer even before Lydia shook her head.
“In an abandoned warehouse, near the harbor.”
“What aren’t you telling us?” I asked, knowing that no one who works as a city editor would be looking like she did over a garden-variety homicide.
“She was tortured.” Lydia shuddered. “The killer drew things on her in some kind of indeli
ble ink. Moths.”
I went to work on a rewrite. Ethan was sent to talk to the police—he had to borrow my car. Now that it was a homicide investigation, John was hesitant to send me, even though it wasn’t going to be Frank’s case. Before Ethan left, I took him aside and said, “This may sound strange, but mention the hose to them. A couple of nights ago, someone pulled the same trick on Marilyn Foster.”
His eyes widened.
“Yes, it scares me. No, I won’t try to find another way home. I’ll wait until you get back and can stay with me.”
“Good,” he said. “What time does Frank get back?”
“Depends on traffic,” I said. “Probably late this evening.”
“Call him.”
“He’s probably out of range of a signal.”
Ethan looked skeptical.
“And I really, really don’t want to fuck up his time off,” I quickly added. He started to leave, but I had seen the mischievous gleam in his eyes, and I caught his sleeve. “Ethan, don’t you call him, either!”
“I make no promises,” he said, freeing his shirt from my grip.
“Ethan!”
But he was out the door.
If John thought I looked bad before the press conference, he should have seen me after I called Dwayne Foster.
Sometimes families of victims take out their understandable rage and feelings of helplessness on the press—they can afford to alienate us but not the police who are investigating their loved ones’ deaths, so we get the force of their reactions. But I soon discovered that Foster wasn’t hostile, he was just bereft, lost in that numb state of denial and pain where a person tries to deal with every intruding thought that isn’t the essential one. I was someone who had listened to him when few others had paid attention, and he needed a listener now, however disjointed his conversation might be.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said several times.
I asked him if there was anyone in his family, or a friend, who might come to stay with him. He told me that his brother was on the way from Santa Monica.