Putting his knees together, Haas hunched and sank lower on the couch. "I took my gun out and went in. I didn't want to mess anything up, so I was careful where I stepped. The light was on in the kitchen. I saw Noreen Peake sitting on a chair- I mean you couldn't really tell it was her, but I knew. Maybe it was the way she was dressed-" His hand waved stiffly. "Ted's boot prints were in the blood-he wore Westerns-but so were others. Sneakers. I still didn't know if anyone was up there, so I moved really quietly. The lights were on wherever he'd-like he was showing off what he'd done. Scott and Terri were next to each other-hugging each other. I ran across the hall… found the little girl…"
He emitted a low-pitched noise, like poorly oiled gears grinding. "The FBI interviewed me, wrote it up for their research. Get your bosses at LAPD to find you a copy."
I nodded. "What led you to Peake's shack?"
"The damn blood, it was obvious. The trail had thinned but it ran down the back stairs and out the back door. Specks and spots but you could still see bits of sneaker prints. It kept going maybe twenty yards on the pathway; then it died completely. At that point, I didn't know I was looking for Peake, only that I should head back to the shack. The sneakers were right inside Peake's door. Clerk over at the five-and-dime said Peake had tried to shoplift 'em a few weeks before and when she caught him, he mumbled and paid something and she let him keep the damn things."
Haas glared. "That was the trouble. Everyone was too nice to him. He stumbled around town looking dumb and spooky; we didn't have any real crime in Treadway, didn't recognize him for what he was. It was a peaceful place, that's why a part-timer like me could be the law. Mostly what I did was help people fix stuff, check on shut-ins, make sure someone didn't get in his car when he was blind drunk. More of a damn social worker. But Peake… he was always strange. We were all too damn trusting."
His hands were working furiously. Time to give him some breathing room. I said, "When Treadway closed down, what happened to all the town records?"
"Boxed and shipped up to Bakersfield. But forget about finding anything there. We're talking maps, plot plans, and not much of it, at that. Sounds to me like you're digging a dry hole, Doctor. Why don't you go back to L.A. and tell your bosses to forget all this psychological stuff. Peake's locked up, that's the main thing."
He looked at his wrist. No watch. He got up and found it on one of the bookshelves, put it on, checked the dial.
I said, "I appreciate your spending the time. Just a few more things. The article I read said you found Peake sleeping."
"Like a-" His mouth trembled. "I was going to say like a baby. Christ-yeah, he was asleep. Lying on his back, hands folded over his chest, snoring, face all smeared with blood. At first I thought he'd been killed too, but when I looked closer I could see it was just stains, and that made me jam the cuffs on him."
He wiped sweat from his cheeks. "That place. I'd seen it from the outside but never been inside before. A sty- smelled worse than a dog run. What little stuff Peake owned was all jumbled and thrown around. Spoiled food, armies of bugs, empty bottles of booze, cans of spray paint, glue tubes, porno magazines he must've gotten somewhere else, 'cause that garbage wasn't sold in Treadway. No one recalls Peake traveling, but he must've. For the dope, too. He had all kinds of pills-speed, downers, phenobarbitol. The prescription pharmacist was over in Tehachapi, and they had no record of any prescriptions. So it must have been street stuff. Scum like Peake can get any sort of thing."
"Was he stoned that night?"
"Had to be. Even after I cuffed him and screamed in his face, stuck my gun right under his nose, I could barely rouse him. He kept fading in and out, got this real dumb smile on his face, and then he'd close his eyes and be in Never-Never Land again. It was all I could do not to shoot him right there. Because of what he did-what I found in his shack." He turned away. "On his hot plate. He'd taken the knife with him, the one he used on the little girl, grabbed that baby boy out of the crib, and-"
He sprang up again. "Hell, no, I won't go there. Took me too damn long to erase those pictures from my head. Goodbye, Doctor-don't say another word, just good-bye."
He hurried to the door, held it open. I thanked him for his time again.
"Yeah, sure."
"Just one more thing," I said. "Who inherited Scott and Terri's estate?"
"Bunch of relatives all over the state. Her folks were from Modesto, and Scott still had family up in San Francisco, on his mother's side. The lawyer in charge said there were two dozen or so heirs, but no one was fighting. None of them gave a damn about inheriting, they were all broken up about how the money came to them."
"Do you remember the lawyer's name?"
"No. Why the hell would it matter?"
"I'm sure it doesn't," I said. "And Scott's mother was already deceased."
"Years before. Heart condition. Why?"
"Just being thorough."
"Well, you're sure being that." He started to close the door.
I said, "Mr. Haas, is there anyone else around here who might be willing to talk to me?"
"What?" he said, furiously. "This wasn't enough?"
"As long as I'm up here, I might as well cover all bases- you were a lawman, you know what it's like."
"No, I don't. And I don't want to. Forget it. There's no one from the old days. Fairway's for old city folk looking for peace and quiet. I'm the only Treadway hick in the place. Which is why they stuck me out with the trailers." His laugh was cold.
I said, "Any idea where Derrick Crimmins-"
"The Crimminses are as gone as anyone else. After Carson Senior and his wife got their money out of the land, they moved to Florida. I heard they bought a boat, did all this sailing, but that's all I know. If they're alive, they'd be old. At least he would."
"His wife was younger?"
"She was a second wife."
"What was her name?"
"I don't remember," he answered too quickly. His voice had hardened and he had closed the door till only a five-inch crack remained. The half-face I saw was grim. "Cliff Crimmins is also gone. Motorcycle accident in Vegas-it made the papers. He was into that motocross stuff, stunt driving, parachuting, surfing, anything with speed and danger. Both of them were like that. Spoiled kids, always had to be the center of attention. Carson bought them all the toys they wanted."
The door closed.
I'd raised someone else's stress level. Some psychologist.
No end to justify the means, either.
Had he reacted with special vehemence when the topic was the second Mrs. Crimmins, or had I already primed his emotional pump so that anything I said raised his blood pressure?
Walking back to the car, I decided upon the former: how likely would he be to forget the name of one of the richest women in town? So something about Mrs. Crimmins bothered him… but big deal. Maybe he'd hated her. Or loved her. Or lusted for her without satisfaction.
No reason to think it related to anything I was after.
I didn't even know what I was after.
Dry hole.
It was still before noon, and I felt useless. Haas claimed no Treadway residents were around, and maybe he was telling the truth. But I felt unsettled-something about his demeanor-why had he agreed to see me, started off amiable, then turned?
Probably just horror flashbacks.
Still, as long as I was up here… I'd already exhausted the major news sources on the Ardullo murders, but small towns had local papers, and Treadway's might've covered the carnage in detail. The records had all been shipped to Bakers-field. Not much of it, Haas claimed. But city libraries appreciated the value of old news.