Nick waited. On his first morning here, Neemal had been attacked by a trustee who said his sister had been a beauty queen. Hit Neemal across the shins with a broom handle. Deputies had overwhelmed the trustee but the incident seemed to have made Neemal feel important.
Since then, Neemal had kept a collection of newspaper clips about himself and allowed some deputies to photograph him, freakish arm prominently displayed. His posture was better. He was hurling back insults at the other inmates, who chided him whenever they could. Wolfman. Head Chopper. Hairy Motherfucker Werewolf Man. He ate every bit of his bad jail food and often asked for more.
Nick noticed that Neemal had developed a love of dramatic conversational pauses. He liked to set up his statements with the phrase “But I will say…” He had changed minor details in his story several times. Nothing substantial. Nick had spent a half hour or so with Neemal every day since his arrest. Kept thinking the Wolfman would come up with something truly useful.
“What will you say, Terry?”
“That I saw the girl twice that night.”
Nick considered. “Are you counting when she was on the man’s back? The man who carried her into the packinghouse?”
“Actually not.”
Nick lit a smoke for Neemal and one for himself. “Talk to me, Terry.”
Neemal crossed his arms and looked down at the table. Blew out smoke. “I saw her once. Like I told you. Then I went back an hour later.”
This was new. “Why?”
“I wanted to confirm what I thought I’d seen.”
“Confirm.”
“That means make sure.”
“I know what it means. And?”
“She was there all right. No head. Underpants.”
“And what did you do?”
“I don’t remember anything until the police woke me up.”
“Not one thing?”
“No.”
“Not even walking out, sliding open that big heavy door, finding the way back to your lean-to in the dark?”
“No.”
“You went back and looked at her.”
“Correct.”
Nick stood there and watched Neemal smoke. “You didn’t take the saw blade?”
“No.”
“Kept it, put it somewhere for later?”
“Why would I do that?”
Nick shrugged. Had no idea why. “What did the shrink say today?”
“Said I could have my old meds back if I wanted. I said no. I may see and hear stuff that isn’t there but at least the reception is clear. With all the drugs from Atascadero it was like being underwater.”
“I’d like to know more about why you went back to see Janelle that second time.”
“So would I.”
Nick shook out another cigarette and handed it to Neemal. “Did you kill her, Terry?”
Neemal looked down at the table again. “I didn’t kill her, I’m pretty sure. But I will say…that sometimes my memory falls behind, then jumps ahead and catches up.”
“Terry, after five days and everything we’ve been through, you tell me you’re only pretty sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Next time, you tell me why you went back to see her.”
“Sure. Okay, Nick, I’ll give it some thought. Thanks for the extra cigarettes. Would they put that in the paper?”
“Put what in?”
“If I had some reason why I went back and saw her.”
Nick looked into Neemal’s mad tan eyes. Considered the possible answers. Then chose the one that would help him most. And would help Terry Neemal probably not at all.
“The newspapers would be interested in that. Yes.”
And I can get you an interview with the Journal’s best crime reporter, Nick thought.
“Good night, Terry. The deputy will be right in.”
BY SEVEN that night Nick had talked with Deacon Mike Shaffner, who said he’d picked up the worship programs at six o’clock last Tuesday night. No, he had not given one to Janelle Vonn or to anyone else. Hadn’t seen Janelle.
Shaffner was very tall and thin, blond hair, gentle hands. Nick couldn’t cast him as Red or Ho. Or anybody who would do the kind of violence he had seen.
Shaffner said he’d taken them home and put the mailing labels on, rubberbanded them into stacks, and set them in a paper Market Basket bag to take to the church in the morning for postage. There was a postage machine in the office, which saved him licking stamps. Though it still cost the same six cents for each one, which hit the Grove Drive-In Church pretty hard. He said he finally dropped them off at the post office in Orange Wednesday morning around ten.
Shaffner didn’t know for sure, but he guessed the programs were printed by five o’clock. The job was done at the Tustin Times building, by a man named Gunnar.
“NICK BECKER? I’m an old friend of Andy’s,” said Gunnar.
He smiled a jagged smile at Nick. Held out a blackened hand. He was short, late sixties. Oddly tanned for this time of year. Sharp eyes and thin brown hair combed from one side of his head to the other.
“Oh, Andy was one of the best reporters we’ve had. I was glad to see him go. He needed to try bigger things. These little weeklies, you know, you stay too long and end up like me.”
“You seem all right,” said Nick.
Gunnar smiled. “He likes the Journal?”
“I think so.”
“The Wolfman pictures were wonderful,” Gunnar said.
“It was good work.”
“He came by here a few months ago with the lady friend, Teresa. To say hi and for me to meet her. He likes me to know his women. I was pretty good friends with Meredith. I wished he could have stayed with her but it was impossible. You knew that Andy was going to go out and experience the world. But she has a family now. Like she wanted.”
Nick smelled the clinical scent of vodka. Looked around for the glass or bottle but saw neither. Noted the radio playing upstairs, oddly loud. Sounded like the big-band swing music his parents used to listen to on 78s.
Gunnar told him that the Grove Drive-In Church worship programs had been completely finished and boxed by 5:15 P.M. last Tuesday. He was sitting at his desk reading the blockbuster paperback Valley of the Dolls when Mike had come to pick them up. That was about six. Gunnar said he printed eleven hundred each week now. Used to be two hundred. The Tustin Times couldn’t profit from such a small run, but Mae Overholt-J.J.’s widow-did it as a favor to God and David Becker. And Valley of the Dolls really wasn’t as bad as some people said.
A side door opened and a handsome woman came in, glanced at Gunnar and Nick with a pleasant smile. Mid-sixties, Nick figured. Had to be Mae. She waved in a way that promised no interruption. Just got something from a desk drawer and went back out. Looked like a roll of masking tape.
“Anyone else come by?” asked Nick. “Maybe to check the print run, grab a few early copies?”
Nick heard a new song start upstairs. No doubt about this one-“Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” One of Max and Monika’s favorites from when they were young. Danced to it in the living room. Boys hooting and fake throwing up.
“No,” said Gunnar with a sharp little smile. “I’ve heard of people rushing the printer for an early copy of an important newspaper. But never in all my sixty-seven years have I had someone rush the printer for a worship program.”
“That’s funny, isn’t it?” asked Nick.
“It is.”
“Until you realize someone did exactly that. And gave a copy to a girl who was murdered a few hours later.”
Gunnar’s already dark complexion went a shade darker. He took a deep breath, let it out. “No, no. There is no humor at all in that.”
“Not much. Who could have gotten early copies without you knowing?”
Gunnar sighed. Looked down at the floor as if chastising himself. “This is…no, this can’t be what you mean.”
“Try me.”
“I spent forty-five minutes away from the presses that night. Between the time I finished the programs and six, when I was expecting Mike Shaffner.”