Engels's face went beet red. "I hate her!" he screamed. "I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!" He slammed his hands into the edge of the cot in frustration. The outburst was over as quickly as it had started, but Eddie's personality had changed again. "I . . . hate . . . Lillian." He said it very softly, with great finality, one word at a time.
"Did she hit you, Eddie?" I asked.
A shake of the head in answer.
"Did she make fun of you?"
No response.
"Did she have power over you?"
"Yes," Engels whimpered. He bit his lip.
"What did she do to you?" I said gently.
Eddie Engels said, quite calmly: "She brought me out. She was lez and she didn't want me to love any other girls but her."
"And?" I whispered.
"And she dressed me up, and made me up . . ."
"And?"
"And . . . fixed me up, and made me do her in front of her girlfriend . . ." Engels's sad voice trailed off.
I cleared my throat. My own voice sounded strange and disembodied. "And you hate her for it?"
"And I hate her for what she made me, Officer. But I love her, too. And I'd rather be what I am than be what you are."
His words hung in the air, poisonous, like atomic fallout. I handed Engels the paper sack containing the eggs and malted milks. "Eat your breakfast," I said. "Rest for a little while, and soon you'll find out why we brought you here."
Making sure the windowless room was locked from the outside, I left Engels alone to contemplate my threat, then went and reported to Dudley Smith.
"You should have been a headshrinker, lad," was his only comment.
At one-thirty that afternoon we brought Eddie Engels back into the interrogation room. He was fed and rested, but looked weary and ready to accept anything. I sat him down on the mattress, and Dudley, Breuning, and I arranged our chairs, allowing him nothing to look at but three oversized cops. Dudley placed an ashtray, matches, and an open pack of Chesterfields on the mattress next to him. Engels helped himself, warily.
Dudley kicked it off: "Of course you know what this is all about, don't you, Engels?"
Engels gulped and shook his head. "No," he said.
"Lad, were you living on Twenty-ninth and Pacific in Venice in March of 1948?"
"Y-yes," Engels said.
"A young woman was found strangled to death two blocks from the house you shared with Janet Valupeyk. Did you kill her?"
Engels went white and screamed, "No!"
"Her name was Karen Waters. She was twenty-two."
"I said, no!"
"Very well. I have here the names of two other young women, lonely young women who met untimely deaths by strangulation. Answer if the names ring a bell, will you, lad? Mary Peterson?"
"No!"
"Jane Macauley?"
"I said, no!"
Dudley sighed, feigning exasperated patience: "So you did," he said. "Well, lad, Janet Valupeyk says otherwise. She positively identified all three of those dead women as conquests of yours. She remembers them well. She—"
"She couldn't have! Janet was a hophead! She was on dope all the time we lived together—"
Dudley swung his hand in a quick arc, catching Engels on the cheek. Stunned, Engels just stared at him like a reprimanded child.
"I thought you picked up lots of women, lad."
"I did. I mean, I do."
"Then how do you know you didn't pick up one of these women?"
"I . . . I don't . . ."
"Have you killed that many, Eddie?"
"I never killed any—"
Dudley swung his open hand, this time harder, opening up facial cuts inflicted the night before. Engels flailed his arms but remained in a sitting position. His face had shown uncomprehending fear and anger, but now it moved into outright grief. He knew we were closing in.
"Leona Jensen, remember her?" Dudley asked.
Engels hung his head and shook it. Dudley loosened his tie. I moved to the mattress.
"I called Seattle this morning," I said. "I talked to your dad. I told him we suspected you of killing five women. He said you didn't have it in you. He said you were a good boy. I believed him, and I believe you. But Lieutenant Smith doesn't. I've told him that there's no hard evidence to link you to those women he mentioned. I think there's only one case against you, and I think we can close that one out if you answer the lieutenant's questions truthfully."
Engels took his chin off his chest and looked at me dolefully, like a dog waiting to be praised or hit. When he spoke his voice had gone effete again: "Did you really talk to Dad?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"That he loves you. That your mother loves you, that Lillian loves you most of all."
"Oh, God . . ." Engels started to sob.
Dudley spoke up. "All righty, Mr. Engels. Does the name Margaret Cadwallader mean anything to you?"
Eddie's whole face started to spasm. He brought his voice down to baritone and said, "No," tremulously.
"No? We have a dozen eyewitnesses who placed the two of you together at the racetrack and at nightclubs on the Sunset Strip."
Engels shook his head frantically.
"The truth, Eddie," I said. "For your family's sake."
"We da-dated," Engels said.
"But you broke up?" I continued for him.
"Y-yes."
"Why, killer?" Dudley bellowed. "Because she wouldn't let you hit her?"
"I never killed anybody!"
"Nobody said you killed her, homo! Did you hit her?"
"I didn't wa—she wasn't . . ."
"You didn't what? You fucking degenerate!" Dudley reached his arm back and swung it at Engels in slow motion.
I caught it in mid-swing, grabbing Dudley's wrist and holding it above my head. "I told you no more of that, Smith!"
"Goddamnit, Inspector, this punk is guilty and I know it!"
"I'm not so sure. Eddie, one thing troubles me. Your Ford convertible was seen parked on Margaret Cadwallader's street on the night she was strangled."
Engels moaned, "Oh, God."
I continued: "What was it doing there?"
"I . . . lent it to her."
"How did you get it back?" Dudley interjected.
"I . . . I . . ."
"Did you ever fuck her at her apartment, lover-boy?" Dudley bellowed.
"No!"
"That's funny, we got your fingerprints from her bedroom."
"That's a lie! I never been fingerprinted!"
"You're the liar, lover-boy. You were fingerprinted when the Ventura cops raided a homo hangout you were drinking at."
"That's a lie!"
Dudley went into a laughing attack. Perfectly modulated, his musical laughter rose and fell, diminuendoed and crescendoed like a Stradivarius in the hands of a master. "Ho-ho-ho! Ha-ha-ha!" Tears were streaming down his red face. It went on and on while Engels, Breuning, and I stared at him, dumbstruck. Finally, Dudley's laughter metamorphosed into a huge, expansive yawn. He looked at Breuning. "Mike, lad, I think it's time to set lover-boy straight, don't you?"
"Yes, I do, Lieutenant."
With all eyes on him, Dudley Smith dug into his coat pocket and pulled out Maggie Cadwallader's diamond brooch. There was absolute stillness in the sordid little room. Dudley smiled demonically and Eddie Engels's face broke out into a network of throbbing blue veins. He placed his head in his hands and sat very still.
"Do you know where we got that, Eddie?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, his voice gone high.
"Did you get it from Margaret Cadwallader?"
"Yes."
"Did you pay for it?"
Engels started to laugh—high, feminine laughter. "Baby, did I pay for it! Oh, baby! Pay and pay and pay!" he shrieked.
Dudley butted in: "I'd say Margaret paid for it, lover-boy—with her life. You beat 'em, you kill 'em—and now you steal from 'em. Do you desecrate their corpses, lover-boy?"