“Why? What makes you say that?”
“No planning and unnecessary work. He took a great deal of risk and spent a good deal of time killing her in one place, then moving the body here for mutilation. Stranger killers are more organized. Age would be late thirties to late forties. Familiar with but no longer living in the area of the murder. I would say that he is either a professional of some kind or an artist or craftsman. He has terrific pride in himself, or in his reputation or his creations, and that is what she insulted so badly to deserve this.”
Nick’s heart was pounding. Then sinking as he watched Teteni close the file and hand it back to him.
“Would he take something from her as a reminder, like you talked about?”
“No. But unpracticed killers surprise us by what they remove from the scene simply to keep the police from finding it.”
“Does he want to be caught?” asked Nick.
“No,” said Teteni. “He feels massive shame but even more massive fear of being caught. Did she have a large funeral or memorial service?”
“Several hundred.”
“He was probably there.”
Home movies, thought Nick. David always made Super 8 home movies of his Sunday services, so why not of the biggest funeral he’d ever done?
Nick’s heart was beating strong and he believed that those movies would lead to something important. He believed for the first time in days that he was really going to crack this case. It had gotten into his head that if you never closed that first case, you could never call yourself good. You had to pass first grade. Make the cut.
“Someday I want to do what you do,” said Nick.
Some of the guys looked at him. He felt his face get red. Hadn’t meant to blurt, but hadn’t known what he wanted to do with the next thirty years of his life until right now. Talk about understanding the kinks.
“Give me your card, Nick,” said Teteni. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead again. “I’ll call you if anything else comes to mind. Good luck. Next?”
NICK MADE David’s home by eleven. Barbara was still up, got David out of bed. Then David took Nick to the Grove Drive-In to get the Super 8 film of Janelle’s memorial service and funeral. There were four thirty-minute reels. David let him have the good projector but Nick had to promise to have it back by Saturday. David told him there was some crowd footage but not that much. Most of the movies showed, well, himself.
At home Nick moved the cars out of the garage and set the projector up on his big wheeled toolbox. Used the wall next to the Odd Box for a screen. Katy wandered out in her pj’s and robe, kissed him dreamily, then wandered back into the house.
Nick watched all two hours and drank four beers without taking a leak.
It was just like he remembered. What, almost a thousand people? Vonns and Beckers and Langtons and Stoltzes and Dessingers. Jesse Black and Crystal and Gail and hundreds of Janelle’s relatives and friends and neighbors he couldn’t even identify. But the greatest numbers were the throng brought in by Janelle’s momentary celebrity. The Headless Beauty Queen of Orange County. Everybody loves a pretty girl and a tragedy.
Nick hit pay dirt late in the fourth reel. Shot of the green slopes of the cemetery and the crowd. And there he was, squeezed into the people around him, looking down like he didn’t want to be seen.
Hair pushed up under the hat. Black sunglasses. Trying to be small. But Cory Bonnett was unmistakable.
27
THE NEXT MORNING Andy stood on the porch of 1303 North Bayfront, Balboa Island, Newport Beach. He knocked again. The sliding door was open and a cool breeze lifted the curtains. He watched a stout Mexican woman lean a mop against a wall and come slowly toward him down a hallway.
Friday, October 18. Seventeen days after the murder.
Three days after reading Janelle Vonn’s letters about Roger Stoltz.
Two days after his signed editorial in the Orange County Journal accused his older brother of incompetence. The deputies in the Sheriff’s Department pressroom earlier this morning had ignored him. But carried on with the other reporters as usual. Andy had never been generally dismissed and didn’t care for the feeling. It went without saying that his department sources had dried up.
Andy introduced himself in Spanish to the cleaning lady. Said he was Mike Jones, one of Representative Stoltz’s associates in the American Congress. Her name was Marci. He made small talk about the weather and maybe renting the place, because Mr. Stoltz had told him what a nice apartment it was. She didn’t know a Mr. Stoltz. She knew Maid in America cleaning service because she’d been working for them for four years.
She smiled, incisors framed in gold. Stood aside. Andy said he’d be quick. She could keep on working and he’d be gone in just a few minutes.
Downstairs were the living room, kitchen, and two small bedrooms that shared a bath. Sparsely furnished. Nice maple floors. Throw rugs and prints of watercolors on the walls.
Andy pictured Janelle here. He unfolded the copy of the letter written in this apartment just over a year ago.
September 10, 1967
Dear Lynette,
Roger gave me the place in Newport full-time. Practically made me move in. For now I guess it’s okay. I don’t like owing him even though he says I don’t. His wife is sweet. Troy of the cops says I have some more money coming, but he’s usually slow with it. Says his department might have an apartment in Laguna they could let me have awhile. I want MY place.
You can see the sailboats from the bedroom window. Roger thinks this is a healthier place for me to be than Laguna. He doesn’t like all the drug things going on there. The long hair scares him. You know how old guys are.
I’m sitting on the bed upstairs while I write this letter. Hard to believe I’m eighteen already. Guess I should be happy but I’m not. I imagine me with a different face. And different hair. And a different name. And a different story behind me. I still love music. Went up to Laguna last night and met that LSD guy at a party. They offered me some and I said no, maybe some other time. Kinda scared of it. Lots of weird people around.
Upstairs Andy stepped into a big bedroom blasted with morning sunlight. Newport Harbor glittered beyond the picture window. Small sailboats rocked in the bright sunshine. The water was polished indigo with a V of white wake widening toward Andy.
White carpet. White walls. White curtains. Prints of flowers and cottages in white frames. Looked like something furnished for an older woman, thought Andy.
The single bed was neatly made. Pink quilt and matching pillowcases and a Raggedy Ann doll upright against one pillow. A low dresser with a mirror. A cane-back rocker. A few pairs of pants and some blouses in the closet. Price tags still on them. One pair of white sneakers with yellow psychedelic daisies on them. Andy turned one over. Never worn. Some T-shirts and tie-dyed stuff in the dresser. Brand new.
Andy opened the bathroom medicine cabinet: deodorant, a can of the same hairspray Meredith’s mother had used. Brand-new bottle of aspirin.
And it hit him that someone had furnished the place the way they thought Janelle would like. But she didn’t want a Raggedy Ann doll or old ladies’ hairspray. Didn’t want this place at all. Her letter to Lynette had said as much.