But the clincher was Andy’s sidebar photograph. He’d snapped it through the window of the Tustin PD cruiser when his brother ran back into the packinghouse for his tape recorder. Neemal even bared his teeth for the shot. Growled, gave Andy the full Wolfman act. The front-page picture showed this hairy, weird-looking guy glaring at his handcuffs, one sleeve pulled back to show a wrist like something out of a horror flick. Hands dirty. Eyes crazed.
“WOLFMAN” QUESTIONED IN BEAUTY QUEEN DECAPITATION
Story and photos by Andy Becker
The New York Times had even picked it up.
A million phone calls to the Journal to say Andy’s article and pictures were great.
A hearty handshake of congratulations from Journal publisher Jonathan Dessinger.
An indifferent handshake of congratulations from Journal associate publisher Jonas Dessinger.
A telegram from newly elected Republican congressman Roger Stoltz, all the way from Washington.
Andy’s guess was that Terry Neemal was a severe nutcase who had the bad luck to be found near a murder scene. Nick had corroborated that idea in his blunt, almost wordless way. But it was hard to completely dismiss a guy who as an eight-year-old set his brother on fire, walked out, locked the door, and had a bowl of Wheaties.
AT EIGHT-THIRTY Andy locked up his desk. Got his briefcase, stopped by the supply cabinet for some more typing paper, and headed out.
Put the top down and took the Corvair down Coast Highway to Laguna, ocean rippling off to his right and a fat moon low over Catalina Island.
A Wolfman moon, he thought. Good title for a paperback crime novel except Neemal probably didn’t do it. But Neemal was still a great newspaper story. And the picture was press club award material, no doubt. Story and photos by Andy Becker. Turned the police band radio loud. Hoping for news on a Boom Boom Bungalow suspect but nothing doing.
The Sandpiper Nightclub was peaceful when he walked in. Band drinking at the bar before the first set. Some good-looking hippie girls with them. Beads and headbands and little oval sunglasses to hide their pupils. Canned Heat on the jukebox, that cool little number with the harmonica.
Verna sat at the other end of the bar, ignored him as he came over and sat down. He had to kind of squeeze onto the stool because Verna was big. She was a clerk in the county payroll office, did the Sheriff’s, Fire, Ag Department, and Sanitation. Strawberry hair and an unhappy face that Andy could see the prettiness trying to get into. He always thought if Verna dropped fifty, threw on some makeup, and tried smiling, she’d be a stone fox. Though he wasn’t sure how “stone” got to be an adjective.
As it was, she had a crush on Andy that he’d never acknowledged. He let her buy his company with occasional payroll gossip. She pretended to be distrustful of phone conversations but Andy knew she was just lonely. She liked coming down to Laguna to see the cool people, rub up against the druggies and artists. A contact high. Andy enjoyed her company. Liked the way she disguised her fear with humor and hostility. Liked her insatiable lust for gossip, innuendo, insinuation. And her honesty.
“Orange juice and vodka,” she said.
“I love you, too.”
“You’re such a huge liar.”
“I know.”
Andy ordered drinks. Glanced down the bar at the hippies. Clove cigarettes and sudden laughter. Glassed eyes. Slurred vowels. Wondered if he and Teresa sounded that way when they got loaded at night.
“Andy, what was it like, seeing her with her head cut off?”
“My heart sped up. It made my legs feel cold and weak.”
“Really?”
“It amazed me that someone would do that to someone else.”
Verna thought about this, said nothing as the drinks arrived and the barman went.
“Nick sees murder every day in homicide,” she said. “And of course, Sharon every night in Orange.”
“The less you talk about that the better, Verna.”
“I’ve never told anyone but you.”
“Keep it that way.”
Andy disliked what Nick was doing and that it was known. Before, when he’d watched Nick and Katy together they made him believe that you could get married and stay in love. You could see them pass love back and forth. Like an invisible box, a big one, the size of a TV maybe, they’d always be handing it off or gathering it in. One of the few married couples he’d seen do that. Now they were just one more reason to skip the service. Maybe these dipshit hippies were right. Free love. Sure, why not? For Nick and Katy it was pretty pricey stuff.
And if a clerk in payroll knew, who didn’t?
“Was it all bloody?”
“Less blood than you would think,” said Andy.
“I heard the Wolfman’s beard had blood in it. Like he’d eaten part of her.”
“That’s asinine, Verna.”
She shrugged.
“So, what’s up?”
Verna rocked her glass. Nothing but ice and a red plastic straw. Andy waved the bartender for two more. Verna stared across at the liquor bottles. Kept staring at them until the drinks arrived and the barkeep was out of earshot.
“This is interesting,” she said. “I do all those department payrolls, right? I get to see what everybody gets paid. Big deal. But I also cut special payment checks, too. You know, for subs or consultants, or emergencies. Stuff like that. The Sheriff’s Department has an informant fund, for their snitches and spies and all. That money comes from us as ‘Discretionary, Informational’-one monthly sum based on the year’s budget. That’s the last we see of it. The department breaks it down division by division. And the divisions break it down for each detail. Homicide. Burg-Theft. Like that. Well, today I’m logging in the numbers on my ledger, making sure the amounts match the checks. Basic bookkeeping. And up comes Captain del Gado with a cardboard box full of Girl Scout cookies he’d sold to some of the people in payroll. He sets it on my desk, finds the order forms, and gets out the Thin Mints and Savannahs. Hands them to me, picks up the box, and goes. But guess what?”
“You ordered Shortbread.”
“No. There’s a new sheet of paper on my desk. Came off the bottom of the box is all I can figure. Static electricity maybe. Anyhow, it’s a typewritten disbursement log for narcotics detail. For informants and drug buys, all that. Third from the bottom, in the amount of two hundred dollars?”
“Janelle Vonn.”
“Right.”
“On the Sheriff’s payroll. I like this.”
Verna looked at him and nodded. Took a big drink. “I thought you would.”
“Two hundred dollars,” mused Andy.
“So…”
“So you…”
“So, I’ve been hearing about Janelle Vonn all day, right? I mean the whole county building is buzzing with the beheaded beauty queen, so I discreetly visit my good friend-”
“Pam, in Assistant Sheriff Louden’s office.”
“Right, and she tells me, in absolute strictest confidence, that Janelle Vonn has been on the payroll for four years.”
Andy clicked straight back to his conversation that morning with Craig, owner of Blue Beat records. Thought of the merry stoners he’d seen hanging around in the back of the store-Timothy Leary and Ronnie Joe Fowler and that Indian fakir with eyes like wet obsidian. The sweet smell of hashish. And Craig saying while he hung the black light behind the counter so the Cream poster would light up blue, The thing about Janelle is she liked getting high, but she got it under control. Then she got into acid and really dug it. For her it was pure experience. Chick had a brain.
But, thought Andy, to collect a paycheck she had to hang with the heads. Tell some tales. Deliver pay dirt, sooner or later. Try LSD and find out she really liked it.
Craig didn’t know if Janelle had had a regular job or not.
Nick didn’t, either, as of midnight Wednesday. He’d said all the pay stubs he’d found in her cottage were old.