California Girl (7 page)

Andy read the spilled wine section. Borrowed it from
A Tale of Two Cities
. He found Dickens sentimental but the wine was great symbolism. He pushed the manuscript away.

Fall Wine,
by Andrew James Becker.

He picked up the phone and dialed Teresa Dessinger’s home phone off the back of the card she’d given him.

“I’ll take the job,” he said.

“Give me two weeks to get the reporter out.”

“You said he was quitting.”

“I said he was leaving. Good night, Andy. And good decision.”

He lay in bed for a little while. Just before sleep he felt a very small smile trying to get onto his lips. Too tired to move. Thought about what had happened. Felt free. Unweighted. Ready to live. Smithy of his soul and all that.

He slept better than he’d slept for weeks.

THE NEXT MORNING
Andy got to the sheriff’s station an hour later than usual. Slight hangover. No promising stories. He stayed late to jawbone
with the other reporters, fill them in on all the important press club business of the night before.

Back in Tustin, he found J. J. Overholt in his office. Roger Stoltz was with him so Andy went to his desk and thought about last night.

Stoltz came by a few minutes later on his way out. He was a man who never seemed to age. Same suntanned face and crisp mustache and cheerful brown eyes Andy remembered from nearly ten years ago. Same thick black hair, unruly like a boy’s. Andy instinctively disliked him.

Stoltz asked about Clay. When Andy said he hadn’t heard from his brother in months, Stoltz said he was doing an important and dangerous thing over in Vietnam.

“I’ll be glad when he’s back,” said Andy.

“Me, too. I’ll be glad when all our men are back.”

“You really think those Commies are a danger to us?” Andy asked.

“They want this country, Andy.”

Andy looked for zeal or imbalance in Stoltz’s eyes. Saw what looked like good cheer and conviction.

“Your father’s really doing some fine things with the Tustin Birch Society chapter,” said Stoltz.

Andy had seen the cars parked in front of the Becker home on meeting nights. And the Santa Ana Police Department motorcycles lined up at the curb because Max had managed to recruit some motor patrol officers over to the society.

Andy had lingered for a few minutes at a couple of the meetings. Listened to the JBS party lines: “Get the U.S. out of the UN,” “Support Your Local Police,” “Goldwater in ’64,” “No on Fluoridation,” “Better Dead Than Red.” They showed films documenting Communist takeovers and atrocities, some of them gory and disturbing. Something about black-and-white film, Andy had thought, the way it captured body bloat and bullet-riddled corpses and blood. And films on the growing use of drugs—how to spot a heroin addict, what marijuana cigarettes looked like, how to tell if your teenager was under the influence of drugs.

The Birch Society members were local men and women—small
business owners, a savings and loan officer, a pharmacist, some defense engineers, a teacher, a dentist, a pilot. They were serious about the Communist conspiracy and seemed happy to have a newspaperman around. Roger and Marie Stoltz were there both times. They owned a small chemical company, RoMar Industries. Solvents and industrial cleaners.

Max Becker had given a speech one night. Andy had never seen him speak before. It surprised him how passionate and eloquent his father was. His topic was the way the Communist conspiracy worked inside a free country. How they used drugs and music and subversive textbooks and ignorant politicians to brainwash the youth. The youth were the most valuable members of a free republic, Max said, and the most vulnerable.

“Mom buys that JBS stuff, too,” said Andy. Though she’d remarked to him once that Roger Stoltz and the JBS were taking over Max Becker’s life.

“She’s very well informed,” said Stoltz. “Well, say hello to them for me.”

ANDY THANKED
Old Man Overholt for six years of employment and gave his two-week notice. The publisher talked for a while about writing and papers and marriage and self-control but Andy hardly heard a word of it. He sat in Overholt’s office, nodding occasionally.

Then he went back to his desk and wrote the Vonn brothers arrest story.

It came fast and he put in a lot. It wasn’t really straight reporting. Not really an editorial or think piece, either. Just a story about a family and it was true. He got Karl’s cold black stare, and Alma’s saying she’d die when she couldn’t count her dead loved ones on two hands anymore, and Janelle’s guitar and Lenny’s shining flame orange and red chopped Harley Panhead. And the notion that these poor people had come halfway across the country to find a better life and had instead found ug
liness, misery, ruined innocence, and death. That we owed them respect for trying. That they had borne a specific burden so that we would not have to bear it. This last idea was something Andy had talked about with David. Wasn’t sure how to write it but felt it very strongly in his heart. Andy changed all the names and places and some smaller things so nobody would know who it was about. Wrote it the best he could.

He knew Overholt would kill the story. But he dropped his two carbon copies into the publisher’s in-box anyhow. Put the original in his briefcase.

Three years ago today that Alma Vonn had killed herself, Andy thought.

This one is for you.

MEREDITH BURST
into the
Tustin Times
office a little after noon, her makeup running and her eyes swimming with tears. She fell into Andy’s arms and hugged him harder than she’d ever hugged him in her life.

He couldn’t get her to stop crying. He guided her outside and they stood by a sycamore tree, leaves mostly gone, branches forking into a pale blue sky. A dry wind chattered the big dead leaves across the sidewalk. He tried to hold her close but she pushed him away.

“I’m not going to see you again,” she said. “It’s over, Andy. I can’t live like this anymore.”

Her face was a mask of defeat and hopelessness.

“I understand.”

“Why aren’t you crying?”

“I’m trying to be strong, Meredith. I still love you. I want you to know I’ll always love you.”

She sobbed and hugged herself and looked up at him with the most abject sadness that Andy had ever seen.

“You don’t know, do you?” she asked.

“I know that I love you. I do, but I think it would be better if—”

“They shot John Kennedy.”

MAX BECKER
brought his three available sons home that evening. David came with Barbara. Nick came alone. So did Andy, walking into the hushed kitchen and wondering why they had been called here. Max had been abrupt on the phone.

Andy noted the paleness of Monika. Her eyes were red and she couldn’t look at him.

They came together in a loose circle in the old kitchen, the TV droning on from the den, speculation about the president and one Lee Harvey Oswald and a murdered officer Tippett.

Max asked them to hold hands. His voice trembled.

“Sons and daughter,” he said. “This is the darkest day of our lives. Your brother Clay has been killed in Vietnam. I’m uncertain of the specifics. David, say a prayer.”

1968

THE WIND BLEW HARD
that day, the first strong Santa Ana wind of the season. October second, hot and dry. The kind of wind that got you a static shock every time you touched something that would conduct. Touch a metal doorknob, you got a little blue zap. Kiss your sweetheart, same thing, a sharp little arc cracked from lip to lip.

Nick got the possible 187 at 4:48 that afternoon and was rolling by 5:09. The delay was thanks to his partner, Al “Lucky” Lobdell, who was talking to his wife on the phone about their son. Kevin was seventeen, having troubles. Lucky’s voice had been soft and grave.

Nick drove. Lucky sat across from him in the Fairlane. Chewing gum, staring out at the wind-bent trees as if seeing them for the first time.

“Two murders in two days,” said Lobdell. “The Laguna thing had to be queers.”

“Laguna PD’s playing it pretty tight,” said Nick. The Sheriff’s Department had gotten the statewide bulletin from Laguna Beach PD that morning. Fatal stabbing at the Boom Boom Bungalow, a beachfront motel that catered to men. No suspect, no witnesses. Dead victim was Adrian Stalling, age twenty, of Bakersfield.

“A stiff at the Boom Boom,” said Lobdell. “Ours is at the old packinghouse near Tustin?”

“That’s right, Al.”

“Should have torn it down years ago. City Council tried to, but it’s just outside the city limits.”

“Yeah. It’s been empty awhile.”

“Bums and rats. Kids doing the wrong things. That was Shirley on the phone. Kevin got suspended from school today for cussing a teacher. Like he does his mom. Three days of suspension.”

“Sorry to hear that, Lucky.”

“Not as sorry as me.”

“What were you doing when you were seventeen?”

Lobdell looked at Nick, then back through the window. Lucky was a big man, barrel chest and small feet. He seemed preoccupied at times, like his back was up against a wall that Nick couldn’t see.

“I graduated early with job credits,” said Lobdell. “Joined the army.”

Nick steered off Fourth Street to Newport, then drove the service road along the railroad tracks. Still a few groves around the packinghouse. Gravel popped under the chassis and the orange leaves shifted in the wind. Silver and green and silver again. Sun bright and low in the west.

Nick thought of himself and his brothers tossing the SunBlesst packinghouse crate labels in the air on a day like this. That dark-haired beauty and her big orange raining out of the sky for days. Remembered the rumble. The crack of Lenny Vonn’s nose. The terrific pain when they clubbed his head with the tree branch. And Andy flying out of the trees to spear Lenny Vonn. Clay. All because of Clay. Be five years next month since he died. November 22. And the war getting worse and worse.

Nick parked the Ford by the railroad tracks. Tustin PD had a couple of units there, and the Sheriff’s had two more.

And Andy’s convertible Corvair Spyder. Custom rims and an ice blue paint job. White top, turbocharged. Press card taped to the inside of the windshield. Andy was a hotshot reporter now for the
Journal.
Won Or
ange County Press Club awards left and right. Had a police band radio in his car, another in his house, another on his desk at the
Journal
building in Costa Mesa. Said he never turned them off, which was probably true. Made half the crime scenes faster than the detectives. Middle of the night on some dismal 187 down in the bad section of Santa Ana there was Andy with his ice blue Corvair and his notebook.

Nick got his case from the trunk. Brand new. Bought his own, the kind with the lock. Organized exactly how he wanted it. Good feeling, to have the tools you need and know how to use them.

He climbed up the rotting old steps of the packinghouse. Smelled the creosote. Felt the boards giving under his feet as he walked across the platform toward the big sliding doors. Heard the metal roof shimmying in the wind. Saw the stains on the roof where the nails had rusted through. He could still see the faint image of the SunBlesst girl and her orange. Faded with age. Her face alone as big as he was.

Inside, the sunlight came through the wall slats in slanting beams. Dust rose in the shafts and a feather zigzagged lazily down. Nick heard the flapping and cooing above him. Didn’t bother to look.

It was pretty much just one huge room. Rafters high up. Big industrial light housings still hanging, dented up from kids heaving rocks at them. Bulbs long shattered. Mullioned windows along all four sides, glass busted out years ago. Some of the safety screen still twisting from the frames. A row of desks, drawers gone, along one wall. Floor covered with crate labels and old newspapers that shifted in the drafts. Little circles of rocks where the bums had lit fires. Probably burned the labels to stay warm, Nick thought.

“Some kids found her,” said one of the Tustin officers. He led Nick and Lobdell toward the far northwest corner of the building. “There was no lock on the door.”

Nick stepped over a fire ring made of concrete blocks. Reached down for a sheet of newspaper. The
Santa Ana Register.
May 23, 1968. Date kind of blurred on him for a second. Still saw double once in a while. Still had a little trouble with his balance. Nothing big. Damned Vonns. Damn Clay. Damned mean beautiful Clay Becker. Back when Clay died
Nick thought his heart was going to explode because he couldn’t do anything about it. Not one goddamned thing.

The wind slammed into the building and the metal roof shimmied again. Paper skidded across the floor. The pigeons flapped and circled and receded back into the dark of the ceiling. Feathers floating in reeds of light.

“Old buildings always smell the same,” said Lobdell. “Always smell like old rat piss. No matter if they got rats in them or not.”

“That’s human piss.”

“You’re a piss expert?”

“I guess.”

Nick wondered if Lobdell was thick or just acted that way. Maybe it was a way to deflect things or to sneak up on them. They’d been partners two days. This was Nick’s first murder as a lead detective in the homicide detail. Lucky Lobdell had already told him that Nicky boy was going to call the shots. He was going to swim hard or sink fast. When he’d said it, Nick had seen nothing but stubborn challenge in Lobdell’s small gray eyes.

The uniforms stood in a wide semicircle. Andy was a part of it. He had his pen in his right hand and his notepad up. A camera around his neck. Stopped writing when Nick and Lobdell got there. Nick had not seen an expression like that on Andy’s face since they’d stood holding hands in the old Becker house five Novembers ago.

They were standing around a bunch of old mattresses. Half a dozen of them strewn about. Stained and flattened. Mixed in with the newspapers and crate labels and some filthy blankets.

The body lay on one of them. On her front. A powder blue turtleneck sweater and underwear. Arms out, legs together. Skin blue-white in the packinghouse gloom. Neck of the sweater empty, collapsed, black-red. Her head lay ten feet away, over on its side like someone had kicked it there. Some blood on the mattresses and floorboards. Purple-black on the old brown wood. Not as much as Nick would have thought.

Nick moved past the officers and Andy got up closer. Knelt down and looked across the dirty floorboards at the head.

“Unholy shit,” he said quietly.

“Goddamn,” said Lobdell. “It’s the beauty queen, isn’t it? The one they took her crown back?”

Nick heard him light a cigarette. Saw the match trail a wisp of smoke down the far periphery of his vision. Saw Andy on the edge of his vision, too. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t take his eyes off the sleepy-eyed, composed, and once beautiful face.

“Janelle Vonn,” Nick whispered. “Unholy shit.”

“Maybe your brother here can write you up some better lines,” said Lobdell.

Nick finally stood. Trembled for just a second. First case and you know her.

I am Janelle Vonn and those are my brothers.

“Deputies, seal off this scene,” he said. “Set up an entry log by the sliding door. Everybody signs in. Everybody signs out. Don’t leave the door unattended. Andy, you gotta stay back and out of the way. Soon as another reporter gets here, you’ll have to leave.”

“Got it.”

NICK SKETCHED
the scene into his new clean notebook. He paced off approximate measurements and made a note to get exact ones later.
Vonn Crime Scene—10/02/68.
He used his compass to get the orientation right. Asked the Identification Bureau deputy to start the photography, black-and-white, then color. Start with Janelle. He watched the deputy coroner place a gloved hand on the bottom of Janelle Vonn’s foot to guess body temp and help estimate time of death.

There was no lock on the door.

He was interrupted by the assistant coroner, an assistant prosecutor, chief and assistant chief of the Tustin PD, a ranking OCSD lieutenant, and a reporter from the
Los Angeles Times.
A crowd had formed along
the tracks. Nick felt like a greeter, then a host, then a bouncer. Andy didn’t have to be told to leave.

He and Lobdell made a pass with flashlights. It was hard to see, the way the sunlight slanted through the wallboards and all the debris.

Nick watched the ID men collect. He missed this part of it, the physical gathering of evidence. Flashlights and tweezers and paper bags. They started about ten yards away from Janelle Vonn and worked closer in a big circle. Came up with an empty matchbook from a local bar called the Epicure. An empty matchbook with a plain white cover. A wadded Juicy Fruit wrapper that didn’t look old. Empty pack of Camels, six feet from the body, cellophane wrap could hold latents. A ballpoint pen that was out of ink.

About fifty inches away from Janelle’s body, underneath a section of newspaper, one of the ID men found a St. Christopher medal on a chain. A circular gold frame with an inset purple enamel bust of the saint. No stains. No rust. Looked new. Knocked off in a struggle?

Lobdell snorted, walking fast and toeing things out of the way around the ID men. Flashlight beam zigging and zagging. Nick watched him for a second. Wondered how you could spot anything moving that fast.

Then Lobdell stopped and stared down. Held his flashlight in both hands like a baseball bat. Took a slo-mo swing. Good hip rotation. Watched the ball sail out of the packinghouse. The pigeons cooed and fluttered. Nick thought if it was up to him he’d put Lobdell in Traffic or behind a desk where he could do a lousy job of less important things than murder.

“Lobdell connects. Hey, Nicky boy, I just homered. Check this.”

He was way off on his own, almost in the northeast corner. Over a hundred feet from Janelle Vonn, easy.

When Nick came up Lobdell stopped chewing his gum and aimed his flashlight beam onto a handsaw covered in blood. Right there on one of the old crate labels. A pruning saw, the kind with the blade that folds back into a wooden handle. For trees and shrubs. No blade, just the bloody handle with the wood ripped where the bolt and blade had
broken away. And under it the SunBlesst girl still trying to give away that orange.

“Let’s get some pictures of this thing,” said Lobdell. “What do you think, Nicky? Look around, maybe you can find the blade.”

NICK KNELT
and held his flashlight while Dale Rainor, the assistant coroner, ran a magnifying glass over Janelle Vonn. Marks on her throat, he could see them through the blood. Some hairs and fibers. Nick thought the stiff, shiny slicks on her underpants might be semen. Good, he thought: blood types. Good old ABO. Best thing they could get besides an eyewitness. When they were done with Janelle’s back side Nick put on rubber gloves and helped Rainor arrange the body bag. Helped turn her over into it. Her neck was a black stump and her arms and legs were stiff with rigor and Nick was suddenly sickened and furious.

“I’ll get him,” he said.

“What they all say,” said Lobdell, blowing smoke.

“This is personal.”

“Everything in this job’s personal for about six months.”

“INVESTIGATOR BECKER, SIR?
You may want to see this.”

Nick joined the deputy in the great doorway of the packinghouse. In the blustery twilight two Tustin PD uniforms marched a man down the tracks toward their unit. The man was a tangle of hair and beard. Weird eyes. Red-faced, filthy jeans and a black T-shirt. A denim jacket lined with dirty fleece. Boots with no laces. Cuffed and struggling but no match for the big men holding each arm. His mouth a black hole in the beard. He was snarling at the officers but the wind snatched the sounds and scattered them into the air.

Nick clomped across the old wood, went down the wobbly steps. Hustled down the tracks toward the Tustin car. Could smell the guy from ten feet away. The officers pulled him to a stop when Nick got close.

“Found Wolfman here snoring out in the grove,” said Officer Huber. “Won’t give us his name. Why don’t you show him your arm, Wolfie?”

The man growled.

“Show him your arm,” said Huber. Huber tried to turn him around but the man twisted a laceless boot into the ground and resisted.

“Didn’t do it,” he mumbled.

Nick shot a look at Huber and the big man shrugged.

“You didn’t do what?” asked Nick.

“The girl in there.” Wolfman fixed Nick with his very pale tan eyes. He really did look like a wolf. The eyes held no emotion that Nick could identify.

“Did you see what happened?” Nick asked.

“I didn’t touch her.”

“Of course you didn’t. Let’s go sit in the back of that car over there. Get comfortable. Have a talk.”

“Look at this,” Huber said, twisting the man around by one arm.

Huber clamped his hand on the man’s wrist, just above the cuff. Yanked up the sleeve of the filthy fleece-lined jacket, all the way up past the elbow.

Get ready for needle tracks by the hundred, thought Nick. The hypodermic highway.

Instead, he saw a black patch of hair, thick as a dog’s, running from the man’s knuckles almost to his elbow. The whole top half of his forearm. Like a patch of Labrador retriever grafted onto a man.