The Famous and the Dead (7 page)

“There's supposed to be more in this life.”

“More what?”

“More good.”

Hood clasped Rovanna on the shoulder, then walked past him into the living room and out the door.

•   •   •

The San Diego Superior Court clerks were getting ready to close for the day, but Hood badged his way through to the chambers of the Honorable Fritz Johnson. Johnson was an older man with brisk gray hair and prying eyes and mounted game birds everywhere: turkey, pheasant, quail, chukar, band-tailed pigeons. “We've never worked with a Dr. Stren. I assign the psychiatrists from Sorrento Valley Medical and he's not one of them. Why?”

Hood briefed the judge on an apparently troubled young El Cajon man, Lonnie Rovanna, who claimed to have been visited by Dr. Stren, with regard to his Firearms Rights Restoration form.

“No,” said Johnson. “Rovanna's doctor is Darnell, not Stren. There is no Stren at Sorrento, unless he's brand-new. At any rate, he wouldn't have seen Rovanna without my knowing it.”

“Rovanna claimed to have seen combat in Iraq. And says he's being treated at the naval hospital.”

Johnson shook his head. “Those are delusions.”

“I thought so.”

“I guess if you're ATF, you're interested in his guns.”

“I'm more interested in the doctor that doesn't exist.” Hood took one of his Mike Finnegan photo albums from a side pocket of his suit coat. Each album contained six images of Mike, four-by-six inches, housed in clear protective plastic. He handed it to Judge Johnson, who flipped through it quickly and chuckled.

“He was a janitor here for a while last year. Did a good job and didn't steal one thing. I haven't seen him in months. Never asked his name. We talked bird hunting, among other things. He used to run his family's vineyard up in Napa Valley, or so he said. There were valley quail and mourning dove to be shot. I remember he knew the Latin for all these birds. Odd, for a janitor. Is this him? Stren? Yes? Well, kind of odd he'd show up as a bogus psychiatrist. If you want to know more about him, talk to Kim out front. She'll know who we contract for janitorial.”

Kim gave him a contact and number for La Jolla Custodial. On his way home Hood called and got right through. He talked to one of the managers, then sent him his clearest Finnegan photo over the phone. A moment later the manager called back to say he'd never seen or hired such a man.

T
h
at evening and part of the night Hood sat at the desk in his wine cellar, using his Justice Department–issued laptop to flesh out Lonnie Dwight Rovanna. Hood was privy to the fine and various databases to which U.S. Marshals have access. It took just a few minutes to find Rovanna's basic biography: He was born in Los Angeles to an aerospace test engineer and a high school counselor. His Stanford-Binet IQ was 126. He was now twenty-nine years old. He had grown up in Orange County, California, attended public school until age sixteen, then . . .

Then it was as if Lonnie Rovanna had fallen off the edge of the world for ten years, only to resurface three years ago in El Cajon. And during that decade, Hood could find no prison time, no military service, no credit agency records, no filings with the IRS. The gap smelled institutional. He poured a bourbon and called an old friend in Sacramento who owed him one good favor. It was a long conversation. By the end of it, Hood was reading Lonnie Rovanna's state mental hospital records on the laptop screen.

At sixteen, Rovanna had suffered his first psychotic episode, which lasted three weeks. Neither parent had a history of mental illness. His original diagnosis had been brief psychotic disorder, but less than two months later he again reported delusions and hallucinations, and exhibited disorganized speech and behavior. After two years in a private hospital, psychotherapy, and antipsychotic medications, Rovanna's diagnosis was changed to schizophrenia, paranoid type with a delusional disorder, grandiose type. He was admitted to a San Diego–area state hospital at age eighteen and remained there for eight years. Medications and treatment had had positive effects, according to two of three doctors. Three years ago, when changes in California law enabled him to get a monthly check and qualify for state-assisted housing, Rovanna had found the rental in El Cajon.

None of which had shown up on his background check when Rovanna purchased a semiautomatic nine-millimeter handgun shortly after leaving the state hospital. Hood knew that the biggest problem with the mental health component of background checks was that nobody cooperated—state agencies shielded mental health records from one another and from county and federal agencies, including the FBI; not all branches of the military fully disclosed the mental health histories of their soldiers to state or other federal agencies, either, and some didn't disclose any at all. Not even government background checkers had friends in every state capital. It was no surprise to Hood that Lonnie Rovanna had illegally purchased four semiautomatic assault-style rifles and eight handguns in the last three years—people like him sometimes fell through the cracks.

Hood exited the state health records and went back to a California law-enforcement-only site that had links to DMV. Rovanna had purchased and registered a used Ford Focus one year ago.

Hood called him. “I just wanted to thank you again for letting me know about Finnegan.”

“He's not a good man, Mr. Hood.”

Hood heard a TV in the background, then the rattle of ice in a plastic cup and liquid being slurped. He sipped his own drink and commented on mankind's nearly universal addiction to alcohol. Rovanna chuckled and said he'd had his first drink at twelve and instantly recognized a lifetime companion. By fourteen he was shoplifting the stuff and selectively pinching from his parents' prescription sleeping pills. Hood told Rovanna that he hadn't missed much by not fighting in Iraq. The insurgents were ruthless against the Americans and their own people, he said. He told Rovanna about some of the investigations he did. And about playing tennis in Baghdad inside the Green Zone, where he helped organize a tennis league of soldiers and local Iraqis—they even had an Olympic hopeful, but he'd been assassinated for cooperating with the Americans. Rovanna asked intelligent questions and listened patiently for the answers.

“I played Ping-Pong a lot,” said Rovanna. “Every rec room in every loony bin in California has one. No pool tables though. They're afraid we'll skewer each other with broken cues. Isn't that a hoot? They worry about us with pool sticks, so they cut our brains away. Mr. Hood, can I tell you my deepest fear? My very deepest fear is of Dr. Walter Freeman and his orbitoclasts. It's difficult for me to say that word out loud. The tool I refer to is a long, slender piece of steel they use to perform lobotomies. It's sharpened on one end like a small chisel, and the other end flares into a heavy butt about the size of a quarter. This is where, after they've inserted the blade between your eyeball and your brain, they tap it with a mallet to get it in. Then they move the orbitoclast back and forth to sever the prefrontal cortex in the frontal lobes of the brain. Dr. Walter Freeman performed the first prefrontal lobotomy in the United States. My body shivers when I hear his name. It literally quakes. Truly, it did just now. And listen to this, Charlie Hood—that first prefrontal lobotomy performed by Freeman was on a woman named Hood! Alice Hood.
Hood.
Funny how all things circle back sooner or later, isn't it? How they connect to form a pattern. I hear her voice sometimes, oddly enough—Alice's. Now the story gets even stranger, Charlie. Later, Freeman simplified the prefrontal into the transorbital lobotomy for patients in insane asylums. It was a cost-cutting measure. There were around six hundred thousand asylum patients in the nineteen-forties. He wanted them all to have lobotomies. Freeman got rid of the need for cranial drilling and anesthetic by using electroshock, much cheaper, then going in behind the eyes. So what had been a surgical procedure became an outpatient office visit. Freeman drove a van around the country, from mental institution to mental institution, performing lobotomies and giving lectures on his miracle procedure. He called his van the ‘lobotomobile.' He charged twenty-five dollars for each one. He personally did three thousand four hundred of them, though he was never trained as a surgeon. His partner finally left the practice because of the cruelty and overuse of the lobotomy.” Rovanna went silent for a long moment. Hood heard the ice crunch and a loud swallow. “Say the word
orbitoclast
, Mr. Hood. Hear the way it lends itself to clear, syllable-by-syllable pronunciation, the way the tongue strikes the palette just behind the front teeth, not once but three times.
That
, Mr. Hood, is what I live in terror of. Of Freeman and men like him, of horrors sold cheaply and pushed upon all.”

“I understand your terror, Lonnie. But lobotomies are not performed anymore.”

“Don't be naive. There are many forms and manifestations. Remember Alice Hood.”

“Do you have information I don't?”

“The more I think about Stren, the more I think he's linked to Dr. Freeman and of course to the Identical Men. It makes sense if you think it through, one connection at a time.”

“I'll write down those three things—Finnegan, Freeman, and the Identical Men. I'll see if I can connect them like you do.” Hood wrote them down on a legal pad.

“Are you mocking me? You think I'm crazy.”

“I think you're at a disadvantage but still in the game, Lonnie.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That you can get better. Look at the progress you've made since the hospital years. You've got your home and a car. You might be able to get some work you like. There's nothing stopping you.”

“Like when they hire defectives to be greeters or push brooms around the big discount stores?”

“It's just work, Lonnie. Work is good. It puts you in the world again. You'd be good in the world, I think. Otherwise it's just yourself and all the things that torment you.”

•   •   •

Hood took his own advice and drove out to Castro Ford in El Centro. He didn't expect to see Israel's Flex parked out front, and it was not. He drove along the parts-and-service yard and the used cars, then the rear of the staging lot where the new cars were brought in from the plants. There sat a tractor-trailer rig, its double-decker ramps loaded with twelve new cars. A silver Flex, freshly washed and agleam in the bold dealership lights, was parked up close to the prep bay. There were lights on inside and one of the rolling doors was open. Hood drove a hundred yards, then swung around and parked on the sandy shoulder of the road. He pulled his camera from behind the seat and brought the staging area into focus. The telephoto lens was powerful and the picture very clear.

Castro came through the rolling door of the prep building wearing chinos and a bright aloha shirt, trailed by a tall man wearing an olive suit. Last came a shorter man in a white short-sleeve shirt with a blue Ford patch on the front, jeans, and work boots. Castro and the tall man stood away from the trailer as the short man climbed up into the cab and lowered one of the ramps.

Hood heard the hydraulics moan and saw the glittering new Fords, still in their white protective wrap, descending to the ground. They strained against the straps. The truck driver climbed back down, then got into the white Fusion at the far end of the lower ramp and backed it off the platform and into a place near the prep building. Castro and the tall man pitched in with the front cars—another Fusion, a Ford Taurus, and two Lincoln MKZs. Then the short man backed out the last two MKZs, one blue and one a dark red. When the top double-decker ramp had been lowered and relieved of its cargo, twelve new cars waited in two neat rows outside the prep bay. Hood timed it at twenty-four minutes and he shot eight pictures.

For a moment the men stood facing the cars. They seemed to be discussing what to do next and through the telephoto lens Hood saw that all three were talking at once and gesticulating at the cars and the prep bay to make their points. The tall man looked Mexican and his olive suit hung expensively. He seemed angry and impatient. The shorter man was nearly bald and he had a thick mustache and an open, humorful face. Castro looked as if he were trying to give orders. Hood had the idea that they'd never done exactly this before, that the situation was different, or maybe altogether new. But how many thousands of factory cars had Castro Ford received in its twelve years of business, Hood wondered. How many hundreds of tractor-trailer deliveries had the short man made? What was the suit doing there? What was the controversy?

A few minutes later Castro and the short man had moved six of the cars into the prep building while the tall one smoked and looked on with an air of disapproval. He checked his cell phone. Then they gathered inside and the roll-up door clattered down. It was 10:42
P.M.

There was a row of windows high up on the prep bay, but Hood had no way of getting up there to look in. He watched the building and tried to keep himself from running his tongue over the diamonds in his tooth. The scar at his hairline itched and he scratched it. He was hungry. Half an hour later the door rolled back up and the men moved the six Fords back into their places on the hydraulic double-decker ramp of the trailer. The other six they moved into the prep bay and the door went down again. Nothing more happened for an hour except that bugs flew in and out of the dealership lights and bats flickered in and out after them. Hood watched, wondering whether Beth would be home on time and whether he had enough croutons for the salad. And why Castro and his men were so touchy about a delivery of cars.

L
ate the next morning Bradley stood before Mrs. Perez's sixth-grade class at Lincoln Elementary School up in the Antelope Valley, north of L.A. This was high desert, where a constant wind whistled through the housing tracts and blew flotillas of plastic bags against the windward walls and fences. Antelope Valley was serviced by LASD's Lancaster Station, and was considered a Siberian assignment by most deputies. Bradley looked out a window at the flat brown grass of the playground as he tried to answer the question.

“Well, I've never shot anyone on duty because I've never had to,” he lied. “The goal of any good deputy is to do his or her job without resorting to force.”

“What if someone pulls a gun on you?”

“You waste 'em!” offered a skinny boy.

“No, you try to talk to them,” said Bradley. He wanted very much to agree with the student. You can't talk to a surprised kidnapper with a gun in his hand. “Circumstances change quickly and you have to keep up. Things get complicated fast. It's like a game. Like . . . I don't know. I'm not being clear here. Sergeant Padilla, maybe you can weigh in on that one.”

Bad verb choice, he thought. Padilla easily tipped the scales at two hundred. She glanced at him. His headache was back. The room on this cool morning was heated to what felt like ninety degrees. The children were alert and attentive and annoying. Padilla droned on about appropriate use of force and limits of restraint and last option and the like. Bradley watched a dirt devil unravel across a field. He imagined Erin in a Max Azria dress years ago when they'd ditched a party down in Baja and taken a midnight stroll on a beach and made love standing up in a sand dune.

“What if they pull a knife on you?”

“Don't mess with no blade,” said the skinny boy again. “That's what my daddy says.”

“He's a wise man,” said Bradley.

“Not wise enough to stay outta prison!”

Bradley thought of Erin now, her middle distended, just days away from making him the proudest father on earth. How could he have fallen so far, from a world in which Erin loved him even in the sand dunes of Baja, to one where she was scarcely able to look at him without pity or anger or amazement at his self-absorption and greed? He felt cursed and singled out for tragedy. And worse yet, unlucky.

“I'm sure he'll be out of the can soon,” he said, then looked at Sergeant Padilla. “Sergeant, I'm going to take a quick break. Just get a sip of water outside.”

“You stay right here, Deputy Jones. We are just about done.”

Padilla spoke in the cheerfully condescending tones of some elementary school teachers. She covered the three signs of drug and alcohol abuse, pedestrian safety on the wide new boulevards of the Antelope Valley, and dealing with suspicious adults. Near the end of the period she told the students about Maslow's pyramid of self-actualization, where once your basic needs are met you can then be free to strive for excellence. And a career in the LASD, she pointed out, was a wonderful base on which to build your life.

Outside in the soon-so-be-busy hallway Padilla stood before Bradley and launched a finger into his chest. “I don't care what kind of a celebrity you think you are. I'm a superior, and when I say jump, you ask how high. Got it?”

“Ma'am yes ma'am.”

“And quit staring out the windows. You're worse than the children.”

•   •   •

After shift he waited in a bar off Highway 395 in Adelanto. It was the nicest place in town, though still a hellhole, he thought. From the booth he could see the old motel still boarded up, its sign lying in the rubble of broken asphalt and bottle glass that was once a parking lot. The wind had blown the tumbleweeds up against the security fence and they looked like they were trying to get inside. He looked up at the sign by the highway:
WELCOME TO ADELANTO, CITY OF UNLIMITED POSSIBILITIES.
He caught his reflection in a window and noted that his hapkido-toned shoulders and arms were flattered by the uniform shirt, but his eyes looked heavy and dead.
The STAR Unit
, he thought.
Maslow's pyramid. What happened to my life?

Mike Finnegan came in a few minutes later, dressed for golf in a lemon yellow shirt, green pants, saddle shoes, and a red newsboy cap with
PGA
stitched in gold. He had a white sweater tied around his neck against the high desert chill. He came to the booth with a smile on his face and the sound of his cleats clicking on the floor.

“This is the first time you've actually invited me anywhere since your wedding,” he said as he climbed into the booth. Mike was a short, stout man. He took off his hat and Bradley saw that Mike had again changed his hair from its usual red to black. “After all these years! It makes me very happy.”

“I'm not happy. I'm at the end of my tether. All tethers.”

“Talk to me.”

They ordered drinks from a wispy blonde with tired eyes and no smile. She was chewing something as she took their orders and still chewing it when she brought the drinks back and set them out. Two men came in and looked at everything in the room except Bradley. The Blands, he thought. CIB's trusted watchdogs. He waved at them and they looked briefly his way.

“Friends?” asked Mike.

“Department watchers. Criminal Investigation Bureau.”

“No wonder you're not happy.”

“They're just a small part of my trouble. Although when I caught them loitering near my home I felt like
shotgunning them both.
” He said this loudly so they could hear. They ignored him and took a table on the far other side of the room. Bradley marched over and slid a fiver into the jukebox and chose the six loudest, fastest songs he could find.

Back at the table he sat and looked into Finnegan's optimistic blue eyes.

“I am here to listen and help,” Mike said.

Bradley gave a heated description of CIB's treatment of him—the endless interviews and accusations, the watchers near his home in Valley Center, the watchers shadowing him while he was on patrol, the CIB prying into his banking, tax, and phone records, the threat of a polygraph, his new assignment to the STAR Unit.

“STAR Unit?”

“Success Through Awareness and Resistance. It's for students. It's actually a good program,” he said without conviction. “Keeps the kids from being taken advantage of.”

“That's important.”

Bradley sipped his beer and looked out the dusty window at the traffic moaning up and down 395. And of course his thoughts turned to Erin again: He remembered time they'd driven up that highway to Bishop, where Erin and the Inmates played the Millpond Music Festival. They'd taken a few days to go camping high up in the Sierras north of there. He pictured Erin with her little ultralight spinning rod and reel, catching trout in a lake, the way the high-altitude light turned her hair to radiant copper. Now a boxy-looking vehicle buzzed up 395 trying to outrun a big rig, and it was the same color as Erin's hair had been in that brief but eternal moment. He'd taken her picture. What a face. What a smile.

Then he began talking about her. His voice softened and he looked down at the tabletop as much as he looked at Mike. His heart felt so full yet so constricted. It felt good to let some things out. He had no one in life to speak to, really, except his wife. His brothers were scattered; his father missing-in-action, as he always had been; his mother a ghost. Erin was his best friend, now alternatingly tolerant and furious at him. He told himself it was her hormones but knew it was more than that. When he thought of his soon-to-be-born son, Bradley felt the tears well up in his eyes. He felt locked out of fatherhood, robbed of his natural right to protect and nurture, extorted out of something that should already be his.

When Bradley was finished, he looked up into Mike's hopeful face.

“What do you want?”

“I want my wife to love me. And if I can get those assholes over there off my case, I can operate again. And if I can, I can provide everything Erin needs. Both things are connected. I want it to be like it used to be.”

Finnegan studied him frankly. His small, freckled hands were folded over each other on the tabletop. “These are not small things. You are twenty-two years old. You have a powerful bureaucracy on your trail—men who know how to inflict harm. And you have lost the love of your wife. I can't make Erin love you.”

“I know that.”

“But I can help get you the
possibility
of escape from your predicament at work. And perhaps through that freedom, you could woo her back.”

“That's what I want. I can work with possible.”

“Bradley, do you truly believe that I can help liberate you from your tormentors at work?”

Bradley thought,
What I truly believe is I'll try anything to get what I want
. “Mike, without you I wouldn't have gotten Erin back from Armenta. I never thought I'd see her again. I've come to realize what you did for us. You and Owens both. So I genuinely thank you. I believe that you can help me again. I'm here to ask for your help.”

Finnegan was standing and had already dropped a ten on the table. “Let's take a short drive, Bradley. Enough of these big-eared Blands.”

“Blands? How do you know that word? I never called them the Blands in front of you.”

“Bradley, your thoughts are as loud as those trucks out there, especially when they're about Erin, or your career. I can explain later. But now,
vamos!
”

•   •   •

Mike drove a nicely restored 1953 Chevy pickup, fire engine red, aftermarket pipes. They rumbled several miles up Highway 395, then out a dirt road that led past a Vietnamese Buddhist meditation center and wound back into the hills. Mike sat up ramrod straight on a pillow and Bradley could see that the toes of his saddle cleats were all that touched the brake, gas, and clutch. With his small hands at ten and two, Mike warbled on about the corruption that shut down the city of Adelanto a few years ago, how the cops were taking money and freebies to turn their backs on prostitution and gambling going on at the now-boarded-up motel, and how some of the city councilmen were taking bribes for business favors, and there were backroom real estate deals involving usurious mortgages and people of color.

“I was five years old then,” Bradley said idly. He wondered what Erin was doing right now, what were her exact posture and movements and thoughts.

“It was an easy project, considering the handsome, long-term returns,” said Mike. “There were gambling losses, loan sharking, foreclosures, ruined marriages, blackmail, drug addiction, violence petty and not, untold heartache. A murder or two. Even venereal disease has its own wonderful little half-life. Too bad it all couldn't last. You saw the old bordello. Technically a motel. Now nothing but dust. But those were three bountiful, beautiful years. All it took was a few ambitious citizens, a stuffed ballot box to put them into power, and
wham!
Bradley, remember this: If you can secure one politician and one member of the law enforcement profession, you can go
bonkers
in a small town. One thing leads to another to another. Everyone comes to see how easy it is to get what they want. It's social fission. Things explode. Look at Bell, Maywood, Vernon! It's my happy little circle of corruption.”

“What did you do back there in Adelanto, Mike? Personally. I mean, exactly what did
you
do?”

“Me? Oh, mostly just brainstorming. The city manager was one of mine. Just pure good fortune that I ran across her years prior. She came up in the net, as I like to call it, long after I'd partnered with her father. Who, by the time his daughter was running Adelanto, was locked up in Corcoran for a very squalid domestic murder. I didn't see it coming. One of the dark spots on my curriculum vitae. But then, I gained her in the deal, didn't I? She was a blessing I didn't see coming, either.”

Bradley checked the side mirror but through the swirling dust he saw that the road behind them was empty. He remembered now that Mike, for as long as he had known him, had often seemed to find humor, and sometimes even joy, in human travail. “What value is it to you, Mike? Crime and suffering?”

“Executive summary? There were two brothers who lived hidden in a forest near a village. One was the King and the other was the Prince. In the beginning they disagreed about control of the people in the village. The King wanted to give them laws and demand their worship. The Prince wanted to let them create their own laws and worship whatever they wished to worship. You see, they both
loved
human beings. They saw human beings as the future of not only the village but the whole earth. So the King banished the Prince from the forest to the desert. The King remained hidden in the forest and sent his representatives into the village, disguised as people. The Prince from the desert did likewise. Then the village became a state and then a country, then the world. This story is oversimplified. But it is a convenient and truthful way to understand the world around you.”

“But I asked about the crime and suffering you seem to enjoy.”

“When faith in the King is undermined, people are freed from his control. People can then choose. We who work for the Prince know that our best tool is chaos, but our goal for you is not chaos at all, but choice. Choice. Freedom. Liberty. Man came into the world free and the King bullied you and stole that freedom away. We work in opposition to his slavery. We hold humankind in the highest esteem. We love and respect you. You are our image and ideal. In a very real sense, we worship you. So we work tirelessly to help you get your freedom back.”

And you're crazy as a shithouse rat,
thought Bradley. He nearly laughed but managed to get out his next words convincingly, with feeling. “You . . . you're the devil?”

“We rarely use that word, but yes. I'm one of many. And there are angels, too, and they have us outnumbered roughly ten to one. We are all representatives. Agents, if you prefer. Worldwide. We're comparable to two multinational conglomerates. Though we wouldn't be among the largest in terms of employees.”