Unless her companion had no interest in heterosexual intercourse.
“Her genital area was raw,” I said. “She could’ve been assaulted without being penetrated.”
“No,” she said, “this was more like poor hygiene. There were no lacerations, no trauma of any sort. And she didn’t get upset when I checked her out. Just the opposite. Stoic. As if she was totally cut off from that part of her.”
I said, “When she was lucid- refined- what did she talk about?”
“The first time she was here I got her to talk about things she liked, and she started going on about art. How it was the best thing in the world. How artists were gods. She could name painters- French, Flemish, artists I’ve never heard of. For all I know, she made them up. But they sounded authentic.”
“Did she ever mention friends or family?”
“I tried to ask her about her parents, where she was from, where she went to school. She didn’t want to talk about that. The only thing she admitted to was a cousin. A really smart cousin. He liked art, too. She seemed to be proud of that. But that’s all she’d say about him.”
“Him,” I said. “A male cousin.”
“That’s my recollection.” She shook her head. “It’s been a while. You said someone she trusted might’ve abused her. There really is a cousin? I assumed it was all delusion.”
“I haven’t heard of one,” I said. “The police are thinking she might’ve been lured by someone she knew. When did her two visits take place?”
She consulted the chart. Erna Murphy’s first drop-in had been five months ago. The second had taken place on a Thursday, two days before Baby Boy’s murder.
“The cousin,” she said. “She talked about him as if she was really impressed. If I’d known…”
“No reason to know.”
“Spoken like a true psychologist. When I was in med school I dated a psychologist.”
“Nice guy?”
“Terrible guy.” She suppressed a yawn. “Excuse me! Sorry, I’m bushed. And that’s really all I can tell you.”
“Kissing cousin,” said Milo, by cell phone.
“Nothing beyond kissing.” I gave him the results of Erna Murphy’s pelvic exam.
“Last virgin in Hollywood. If it wasn’t so pathetic…” He was on his cell, calling from the car, reception fading in and out.
“More like virgin sacrifice,” I said. “She was used and discarded.”
“Used for what?”
“Good question.”
“Theorize.”
“Adoration, submissiveness- listening to his fantasies. Running chores- as in scoping out murder scenes and reporting back. An asexual relationship is consistent with Kevin’s being gay. The interest in art drew them together. Maybe she called him her cousin because he represented her surrogate family. She refused to say a word about her real family.”
“Or,” he said, “Kevin’s really her cousin.”
“That, too,” I said. “Red hair, just like his mother.” I laughed.
“Hey, sometimes it helps not to be too brilliant.”
“How would you know?” I said.
“Pshaw. No luck on Erna’s folks, yet. Stahl’s working with the military. But guess what: Kevin’s Honda showed up. Inglewood PD tow yard. Parked illegally, it got hauled in two days ago.”
“Inglewood,” I said. “Near the airport?”
“Not far. I’m heading there as we speak. Gonna flash Kevin’s picture at the airline desks, see if anyone remembers him.”
“You’re canvassing LAX by yourself?”
“No, me and my baby Ds, but it’s still a needle in the proverbial you-know-what. The Honda’s being transferred to our motor lab, but it’s been pawed over pretty thoroughly. What finding it does, though, is firm up Kev as our bad boy. He did bad things, found out we were asking about him, cut town. There were no trophies in his pad because he took them.” His voice was engulfed by static. “… any ideas about which airline to start with?”
“Check with Passport Control and eliminate foreign flights.”
“My first stop,” he said, “not that it’s gonna be a snap, those guys love paperwork. Let’s assume domestic, though. Where would you begin?”
“Why not Boston?” I said. “He’s been there before. Enjoyed the ballet.”
33
Eric Stahl spent two days dealing with the various branches of the United States armed forces. Thousands of Donald Murphys in the Social Security files. Military service would winnow it down, but Pentagon pencil pushers weren’t spitting out the information without putting him through the usual.
The fact that he knew the sublanguage made it a little easier.
How he felt about the military was another thing.
He’d started with Erna’s mother, first, because Colette was a less common name. One hundred eighteen SSI records with forty-three fitting the approximate age range. He began with the Western states, came up empty. Wondering all the while if this chasing down Erna was fruitless, even if he found her family.
Even so; he’d do what he was told.
He worked his way east, found a Colette Murphy in Saint Louis whose evasive tone and repeated denials made him wonder. From her accent Stahl guessed a black woman. He didn’t ask. You didn’t do that anymore.
The Army had taught him racial sensitivity. As in treat the Saudis like gods and smile as they shit on you.
He traced Saint Louis Colette with her local police, found out she had a record for petty larceny- which explained the caginess- and that she’d never been married to any Donald.
At 8:30 P.M. he reached a Colette Murphy in Brooklyn.
Eleven-thirty, her time. She said, “You woke me up.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Not expecting much, Stahl gave her the line- tracing Donald on a routine investigation, no mention of Erna’s name.
She said, “Christ, at this hour? That’s not me, it’s my sister-in-law. My husband’s brother married her, and they had a crazy kid. I’m Colette, and Donald finds himself a Colette, too. Weird, right? Not that it’s any great shakes being in this family. They’re both bums. My Ed and his brother.”
“Donald?”
“Who else.”
“Where’s your sister-in-law?”
“Six feet under,” said Brooklyn Colette.
“Where’s Donald?”
“Who knows, who cares?”
“Not a nice guy.”
“A bum,” she said. “Like Ed.”
“Could I talk to Ed?”
“You could if you were six feet under.”
“Sorry,” said Stahl.
“Don’t be. We weren’t close.”
“You and your husband?”
“Me and any of them. When Ed was alive, he beat the hell out of me. I finally got some peace. Until you woke me up.”
“Any idea where I can find Donald?”
“Thanks for the apology,” she said.
“Sorry for waking you, ma’am.”
“I think he was out in California. What’d he do?”
“It’s about his daughter Erna.”
“The crazy one,” said Brooklyn Colette. “What’d she do?”
“Got murdered,” said Stahl.
“Oh. Too bad. Well, good luck finding him. Check bum places. He drank like a fish. Same as Ed. Navy never cared. Made him a sergeant, or whatever they call them in the Navy- petty something. No big war hero, he shuffled papers. Made himself out like he was a hero. Liked to wear that uniform of his, go to bars, try to pick up women.”
“Military types do that.”
“You’re telling me?” said Brooklyn Colette. “I was married to one for thirty-four years. Ed was Coast Guard. Then he joined the Port Authority, sat at a desk, and made like he was an admiral.” She cackled. “Finally, his ship came in, and I’m on high ground. I’m going back to sleep-”
“One more thing, ma’am,” said Stahl. “Please.”
“It’s late,” she snapped. “What?”
“Do you recall what Navy bases your brother-in-law was stationed at?”
“Somewhere in California. San Diego, or something. I remember we visited them one summer. Sat around doing nothing, some hosts. After that they got to go to Hawaii, Navy sent ’ em to Hawaii, can you believe that? Like a paid vacation.”