The Whole Truth (12 page)

Steve drove leisurely, taking in the environment. Verner had an actual downtown, with rows of shops. Boutiques, hardware, shoes, antiques, books. The place hadn't been Wal-Marted yet, though it did have the obligatory Starbucks. He stopped in and treated himself to a Mocha Frap. It was a long drive back to LA.

He walked around a little. Verner had a nice-looking Mexican grill and a Carl's Jr. A bowling alley and a two-screen theater. Brad Pitt's latest, along with some teen horror flick, the kind that inevitably featured the latest TV hotties making their big-screen debuts in an entirely forgettable waste of celluloid. The posters always featured the ample bosom of the latest eye candy, who would soon enough occupy the same dustbin of cultural irrelevancy as Paris Hilton.

All in all, it seemed like a perfect place for his brother to start his re-entry into society. Not a big city with concentrated temptations. But not so small that you couldn't find some things to do. Steve thought he might even take up bowling and roll a few with Johnny.

What if he even moved out here sometime? Could be the right kind of place for him to start over again too. Him and Johnny, same place again.

Still, he wasn't quite sure what to make of his brother and the company he kept. Steve had defended a lot of cons, and the odds of their staying out of trouble after they got sprung were pretty low. Johnny seemed determined. He wasn't so sure about that guy Rennie.

Rennie no doubt had trouble tattooed on his chest.

Steve got back to the Ark and drove toward the highway. At the edge of town he saw a brown brick building and a six-point star sign that said Sheriff
.
He paused, then turned left into the outdoor parking lot. He'd come all this way. Why not bunch up on the tasks?

Inside, it had a revamped look. Fresh coat of beige paint on the walls, clean brown carpeting, a Western painting on the wall — a couple of cowpunchers beneath an orange sunset. Behind the reception desk, a woman of about fifty worked a keyboard. She got up when she saw Steve standing there.

He took out one of his attorney cards and handed it to her. “Stephen Conroy. I talked to a Lieutenant Oderkirk.”

She looked up from the card, her face ashen. “You haven't heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Terrible. An accident. Four days ago.”

Steve couldn't find a word.

“He was driving,” the woman said. “At night. We don't know exactly. He went off the road.” She looked down.

“Is he hurt bad?”

“He died,” she said.

A jolt ripped through Steve. “I'm sorry.”

“We are too. He was a good man. Had a wife and two daughters.”

“He was helping me.”

She said nothing.

“Is the sheriff in?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I don't expect him back today. I think he's at the mortuary, in fact. The funeral's on Saturday.”

“Which mortuary would that be?”

“There's only one. Bruck. It's over on Hazleton.”

Bruck sounded familiar. Then he remembered it was the mortuary where Robert's autopsy was performed.

“How do I get there?” he asked.

TWENTY-ONE

An older man, maybe seventy-five, greeted Steve in the softly lit reception area of the Bruck Mortuary. Scarlet velvet curtains with gold brocade hung over an inner doorway. A large chandelier issued muted light. The room had an abundance of ferns that may or may not have been real. It wouldn't matter to the stiffs, Steve mused.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the gentleman said. He wore a gray suit, white shirt, red tie. His white hair was wispy, like a bird's nest. The nameplate on his desk said Edward Hendrickson.

“I was sent over here from the sheriff's station. I was told the sheriff was here.”

“He's in with Mr. Bruck,” Hendrickson said. “Would you like to wait?”

“It's about Lieutenant Oderkirk,” Steve said.

“Oh. Yes. I see.” It didn't seem like he saw, but he picked up the phone and pressed a button. Into the receiver he said, “Excuse me, Mr. Bruck, but a gentleman is here regarding Lieutenant Oderkirk. No, I didn't get his name.” He looked at Steve.

“Conroy.”

“Conroy,” Hendrickson repeated. Then, “Thank you.” He hung up the phone. “Mr. Bruck will be right with you.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. “Would that be the original Mr. Bruck?”

“Oh no. It's third generation. William. This was all started by his grandfather.”

“And the sheriff. What's his name again?”

“Mott, sir. Owen Mott.”

“How long's he been sheriff?”

“Long time. Fifteen years at least.”

The velvet curtains flapped and a guy about Steve's age stepped in. He wore an open-collared shirt and a black coat and slacks. New breed of mortician, Steve thought. More hip. Make the bereaved think their dear departed has all the latest, whatever that might be in this business.

“Hi, I'm Bill Bruck.” He offered his hand. He was a head shorter than Steve, with thick black hair gelled flat. “Mr. Hendrickson says you're here about Larry Oderkirk.”

“In a way.” Steve handed him one of his cards.

“Lawyer?”

“That's right.”

“Were you representing Larry for something?”

“No.”

“Friend of the family?”

“Not exactly.”

He frowned. “How can I help you?”

“I was actually hoping to talk to the sheriff.”

“Oh.” Bruck made little squeezing motions with his fingers, like he was holding a little rubber ball. “Well, we're going over some details right now. I wonder if you can arrange an appointment.”

“Thing is, I'm heading back to LA. I had some business with Lieutenant Oderkirk and I thought I could ask the sheriff about it.”

A uniform stepped through the curtains. “What sort of business was that?”

He was tall and thin, with a salt-and-pepper moustache and tortoiseshell glasses. He wore a sheriff's star on his chest. The pants of his uniform were stuffed inside black cowboy boots.

“Sheriff Mott?” Steve said.

“Who's asking?”

“My name's Steve Conroy. I spoke to Lieutenant Oderkirk recently.”

Bruck handed Steve's card to the sheriff, who gave it a quick once-over. “Uh-huh. What about?”

“He was helping me locate an autopsy record.”

Mott looked at Bruck, who kept working the phantom super ball.

“And I guess that autopsy was done right here, back in 1983,” Steve said.

“Before I was elected,” Sheriff Mott said.

“My dad was running the business then,” Bruck said.

No one offered anything else, so Steve said, “Maybe you could help me, Sheriff. If I want to locate the full record of the case, can I get that at your office?”

“We're in a transition period at the moment,” Mott said. “A lot of the old records are in San Bernardino being transferred to microfiche. So I'm afraid now is about the worst time to ask.”

“You must have some sort of index, a centralized record.”

“What is the nature of your interest, Mr. Conroy?”

“The victim was my brother.”

Mott nodded. “I see. Let me suggest this. Call our office on Monday and have Sandra fax you an official request form. Fill that out and fax it back to us. We'll see what we can do.”

Steve glanced at Hendrickson, the man behind the desk. He was looking down at what appeared to be nothing.

To Bruck Steve said, “Do you keep records of autopsies?”

Mott answered. “I'd rather you go through the proper channels, Mr. Conroy. That way we can make sure it's all done right. Is that the only reason you drove out here from” — he looked at the card again — “Canoga Park?”

“I had some other business.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“Legal matter.”

Mott waited for Steve to add something. He didn't.

“If that's all,” Mott said, “then I'll be sure — ”

“One more thing,” Steve said. “What were the circumstances of Lieutenant Oderkirk's death?”

“And your reason for that information is what?”

“Just curious.”

“Curious just isn't enough, Mr. Conroy. As a lawyer, I'm sure you understand.”

Steve heard something that sounded like a ticking clock. It was the old guy at the front desk. He was tapping a pencil on the edge. When he saw Steve looking at him, he stopped. An embarrassed silence descended from the dark crimson ceiling.

“Well,” Mott said, “I think we all have things to do. Nice meeting you, Mr. Conroy.”

TWENTY-TWO

A haze had drifted up against the mountains as Steve pulled out of the parking lot. Made things fuzzy. He thought about Oderkirk's death. A thin layer of uncertainty shrouded that too.

Maybe it was all coincidence. Or maybe Johnny's God had planned it out.

Some planner. If he was so all-powerful, why'd he make everything such a mess? You don't do it that way if you're God.

Time for a little clearing of the air. Steve had the autopsy report in his briefcase in the car. It was four fifteen. He'd come this far and spent this much time. Maybe one more stop.

Traynor Memorial Hospital.

Steve got directions at an ARCO station. The hospital was tucked up against the foothills. A three-story, sage-green structure with tinted windows. Just inside the front doors, two elderly women sat at a reception desk. They were dressed in blue smocks with yellow tags identifying them as volunteers
.
One of them had sleet-colored hair done up in curls. The other had dyed hers a shade of red that did not exist in nature.

They looked surprised and delighted when Steve came in, as if he were the Pony Express riding into the fort.

They fought for the first word. Curls said, “May I help — ” at the same time Red said, “Who are you here to — ”

They stopped and looked at each other, half-annoyed, half-amused, then back at Steve.

And spoke over each other again.

“Let me help you out,” Steve said. “I'm looking for a doctor, a certain — ”

“Are you hurt?” Curls said.

“Our emergency entrance is around to the side,” Red said.

“No, I — ”

“Oh, but we just had a shooting,” Curls said.

“A colored man,” Red added.

“Black, Liv. They don't like to be called
colored
.”

“I always forget.” Red shook her head.

Steve said, “I'm trying to locate a certain doctor — ”

“We don't do referrals here,” Curls said. “But if you — ”

Red jumped in. “We have a medical building just down the block if you'll — ”

“He didn't ask for a medical building,” Curls snapped.

“I know that, but if he's looking for a doctor that would be the place to start.”

“Not any doctor,” Steve said. “A specific doctor, named Walker C. Phillips.”

A silence fell upon the volunteers. Neither seemed eager to tackle that one.

“Is he still practicing?” Steve said.

Red leaned forward and whispered, “Lost his license to practice.”

“Terrible tragedy,” Curls said, shaking her head.

“He drank,” Red added, and gave a tippling motion with her hand.

“When was this?” Steve asked.

“Oh, it's been, what, ten years, at least,” Curls said. “His wife left him, you know.”

“Ah, no, I did not know that.”

The two women nodded.

“Can you tell me, is he still around?”

“Oh, he moved,” Red said. “To Tehachapi.”

“I thought it was Temecula,” Curls said.

“No, Tehachapi.”

“He moved where the prison is.”

“That's Tehachapi.”

“No, it's Temecula.”

“Oh, no. I have a granddaughter in Temecula.”

“That doesn't mean — ”

“I would have remembered.”

“Excuse me,” Steve said. “Maybe there's someone here at the hospital who would know for sure?”

That seemed like a delightful suggestion to the ladies, who fought over the phone. Curls won and punched in a number and took about five minutes to formulate the question, and finally listened. She started to frown. Then seemed almost angry.

She replaced the phone. “Apparently he moved to Tehachapi.”

Red smiled without saying a word.

Curls quickly added, “But he may have moved
from
Temecula.”

“Thank you, ladies,” Steve said. “You've been very helpful.”

“That's our job,” Curls said.

“It's not really a
job
,” Red said.

Steve walked quickly for the doors, hearing Curls as he did. “I think you'd do much better if you did consider it a job.”

As he was driving back to LA, Steve got a call from Ashley.

“This is a surprise,” he said. He noted, with consternation, that his heart was kicking up. With longing. He wanted to be over that reaction. Now.

“I've been meaning to call you,” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine. I'm driving and everything.”

“Steve — ”

“Sorry.”

She paused. “You have some things in the garage. I was just wondering what you planned to do with all of it.”

“Is it in the way?”

“Well, sort of.”

“Is it a health hazard?”

“Steve, I'm not a storage service.”

“No, you're the one who filed for divorce and forced me out of the — ”

“I didn't force anything.”

“And now you're ragging my face about a few things in the garage? Come on, I live in an apartment.”

“We can't just leave it like this. I own the house now — ”

“You will, when I get my share.”

“ — and I can't have a portion of my garage filled with your things.”