by Sue Grafton
At 10:30 A.M. on August 6, 1969, Detective Crouse interviewed a clerk named Roxanne Faught, who worked at a minimart on Highway 101. She’d contacted the Sheriff’s Department after reading about the murder in the papers and reported that on Friday, August 1, she’d seen a young girl who matched the description of Jane Doe. Miss Faught stated that the girl had helped herself to coffee and a doughnut, which she was unable to pay for. Faught paid for them herself, which is why the incident stuck in her mind. Earlier she’d noticed this same girl hitchhiking north, however she was gone when Faught left work at 3:00 P.M. The girl in the minimart carried no luggage and had no wallet or purse. Several other people contacted the department with leads, but none of these panned out.
As the days went on, calls came in reporting vehicles of various makes, models, and descriptions that had been seen near the quarry both before and after the body was discovered. As with any investigation, delving into the one crime seemed to bring a number of peripheral crimes into focus: loitering, trespassing, public drunkenness, petty theft—all of which turned out to be immaterial to the case. It was clear that many local citizens were busy remembering odd and freakish incidents that had occurred in the weeks prior to the homicide. For all anyone knew, one of these reports might hold a vital clue about the girl who’d been murdered or the person, or persons, who’d killed her.
Every phone call, every out-of-state inquiry, and every rumor was dutifully tracked down. At the end of each report, there was a list appended, giving the names, addresses, and phone numbers of those who’d been interviewed. The managers of the JCPenney stores in Lompoc and Santa Teresa were contacted with regard to the article of clothing that bore the Penney’s label, but it was learned that the item was available at any store in the chain. In the end, the girl remained unidentified, and as autumn rolled into winter, new leads diminished. The stained canvas tarp bore no identifying labels. The plastic-coated wire was submitted to the crime lab for analysis. The lab determined that wiring of that nature “would most probably be utilized in low-voltage-amperage conditions where little or no tension would be exerted on its length and where maximum protection from abrasion and moisture was required, perhaps an auto light system, or small low-voltage lighting equipment.” By December of 1970, the intervals between reports had lengthened and new information had dwindled.
Stacey had worked the case at various times during the following years. He’d consolidated the list of witnesses, and it looked as though he’d arranged them in order of their importance, at least from his perspective. Many had been eliminated because the information they’d provided was too vague or their suggestions too far-fetched. In some cases, it was clear from later file entries that their questions and concerns were not relevant to the investigation. He’d followed up on every call in which a missing girl had been reported. In one instance, dental records were not a match for Jane Doe’s. In another, the police advised the Sheriff’s Department that the girl in question was a chronic runaway and had returned home within days. In a third case, the mother of the subject called and informed investigating officers her daughter was alive and well. Stacey had even tried using telephone numbers listed in the reports in hopes of contacting persons whose information seemed pertinent, but many numbers were out of service or had been reassigned to other parties. Having reached the last of the reports, I went through again, consigning the pertinent dates to a stack of blank index cards, converting the facts from their narrative form to disconnected bits of information that I’d analyze later.
When I finally closed the file and looked at my watch, it was only 7:15—still early enough to catch up with Dolan at CC’s. I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my jacket and shoulder bag, and headed out to my car.
The Caliente Café—or CC’s, as it’s known—is a neighborhood bar that offers an extensive menu of American dishes with Spanish surnames. The food was probably the management’s attempt to keep the patrons sufficiently sober to drive home without incurring any DUIs. The surrounding property had undergone a transformation since my last visit two years before. The restaurant is housed in an abandoned service station. The gasoline pumps and below-ground storage tanks had been removed at the time of the conversion, but the contaminated soil had simply been blacktopped over and the resulting quarter acre of tarmac was used to provide patron parking. As time went on, the neighbors had begun to complain about the virulent seepage coming up from the ground—a chemical molasses fierce enough to darken the soles of your shoes. In the thick of summer heat, the asphalt became viscous and smelled like oolong tea—which is to say, smoldering tires. In winter, the surface seized up, buckling and cracking to reveal a mealy substance so caustic it generated nosebleeds. Stray cats were subject to wracking coughs on contact. Wandering dogs would suddenly stagger in circles as though in the grip of neurological dismay. Naturally, the owner of the property wasn’t interested in paying the hundreds of thousands of dollars required to excavate this hellishly befouled soil, but the EPA had finally stepped in, and now the parking lot had been uprooted in an effort to remove all the contaminated dirt. In the process, numerous Chumash Indian artifacts had been uncovered, and the site was suddenly embroiled in a dispute among several parties: the tribe, the landowner, the city, and the archaeologists. So complex was this litigation that it was impossible to tell who was siding with whom.
It was a testimony to loyal patrons that for months they’d continued to tromp across this malodorous earth, endured delays and inconveniences, suffered picketers, public warnings, posted notices, fumes, muddy shoes, and the occasional pratfall just to get to their daily drinks. The parking lot was now fenced off and the path to the front door consisted of a narrow walkway of two-by-four planks laid out end to end. Approaching the establishment, I felt like a gymnast teetering on the balance beam before an ill-timed dismount.
The red neon sign that hung above the entrance still hissed and sizzled like a backyard bug light, and the air wafting out smelled of cigarette smoke and corn tortillas fried in last week’s lard. A shrieking duet of blender motors was accompanied by castanets of clattering ice cubes being whirled together with tequila and margarita mix. The Caliente Café opens at 6:00 every morning and doesn’t shut down until 2:00 A.M. Its further virtue is that it’s located just outside the city limits and thus provides an ever-present refuge for off-duty police officers who need to unwind at the end of a hard day—or after lunch, or after breakfast.
As I crossed the threshold, I confess I was hoping to run into a Santa Teresa vice cop named Cheney Phillips. Our long acquaintance had never progressed as far as romance—he had a girlfriend, for one thing—but one could always hope. Rumor had it the two of them had split up, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to put in an appearance.
Part of what sparked my interest was the fact I hadn’t heard from Robert Dietz in months. He’s a semiretired private eye who worked as my bodyguard in 1983 when a cut-rate hit man was hired to rub me out. Our connection since then has been intense and sporadic, with long, inexplicable intervals between visits. Only two weeks before, I’d called him in Carson City, Nevada, and left a message on his machine. So far, he hadn’t bothered to call me back, which meant he was either out of the country or had moved on to someone new. Though I was crazy about Dietz, I’d never thought of him as my beau, my steady, my significant other, or my main squeeze (whatever the hell that is). Oh sure, Dietz and I had fooled around some over the past four years, but there was no commitment between us and no promises on either part. Naturally, I was irked at his neglect, even though I was equally at fault.
I caught sight of Dolan at the bar. He was wearing a worn brown leather bomber jacket. I paused for a moment to scope out the crowd and saw his gaze slide in my direction. Dolan’s been a cop for too many years not to keep an eye on his surroundings, perpetually scanning faces in hopes of a match for one of the mug shots that had once crossed his desk. Off duty or on, no cop can resist the notion of a wholly unexpected felony arrest.
He ra
ised a hand in greeting and I steered a course toward him, threading my way among parties waiting for tables. The stools on either side of him were occupied, but he gave the guys a look and one of them stood up to make room for me. I placed my shoulder bag at my feet and perched on the stool next to his. The ashtray in front of him was thick with butts, and it didn’t take any of my highly developed detecting skills to note the number of cigarettes he’d smoked, including the one he was in the process of lighting from the still lit. He was drinking Old Forrester and he smelled like a Christmas fruitcake, minus the dried maraschino cherries. He was also snacking on a plate of poppers: batter-fried jalapeño peppers filled with molten cheese. I thought I’d avoid pointing out the continuing error of his ways. There’s nothing more obnoxious than someone calling attention to our obvious failings.
I said, “I thought I might run into Cheney Phillips. Have you seen him?”
“I think he’s in Vegas on his honeymoon.”
“His honeymoon? I thought the two of them broke up.”
“This is someone new, a gal he met in here five or six weeks ago.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Afraid not. Anyway, forget him. He’s not your type anyway.”
“I don’t have a type. Of course, I don’t have a boyfriend either, but that’s beside the point.”
“Have a popper.”
“Thanks.” I took one and bit into it, experiencing the spurt of melted cheese before the heat of the jalapeño set my tongue aflame. The jukebox came to life, and I peered over my shoulder as the strains of a country-western melody line-danced its way across the room. The Wurlitzer was ancient, a chunky, round-bodied contraption with a revolving rainbow of hues, bubbles licking up along its seams.
I turned my attention back to Dolan, trying to figure out how much he’d had to drink. He wasn’t slurring his words, but I suspected he was so conditioned by his own alcoholic intake that he’d show no signs of drunkenness even if he fell off his stool. I wasn’t sure if he’d been drinking continuously since lunchtime or had gone home for a nap between cocktails. A glance at the clock showed it was only 7:35, but he might have been sitting there since 4:00 P.M. I didn’t look forward to working with the man if he was going to be pie-eyed from day to day. His constant smoking didn’t appeal to me, either, but there was nothing I could do about it so the less said the better. “How’s Stacey doing? Have you talked to him yet?”
“I called him at six and said we’d stop by to see him. Guy’s sick of being poked and prodded, really wants out of there. I guess they’ll release him tomorrow once the test results are back.”
“Did you tell him your idea?”
“Briefly. I said we’d fill him in when we got there. What’d you think about the case?”
“I really love all that stuff. I usually don’t have the chance to see police reports up close.”
“Procedure hasn’t changed that much the past twenty years. We’re better at it now—more thorough and systematic, plus we got new technology on our side.”
The bartender ambled our way. “What can I get for you?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
Dolan lifted his whiskey glass, signaling for a refill.
“Aren’t we on our way to see Stacey?”
“Right now?”
“Well, there’s no point in getting into this if he’s not going to agree.”
I could see Dolan debate his desire for the next drink versus his concern for his friend. He pushed his glass back, reached for his wallet, and pulled out a handful of bills, which he tossed on the bar. “Catch you later.”
I grabbed my bag and followed him as he headed for the door.
“We’ll take my car,” he said.
“What if you want to stay longer than I do? Then I’m stuck. Let’s take both cars and I’ll follow. That way, I can peel off any time it suits.”
We wrangled a bit more but he finally agreed. I was parked half a block down, but he dutifully waited, pulling out just ahead of me as I came up on his left. His driving was surprisingly sedate as we cruised out the 101 in our minimotorcade. I knew if he got stopped and breathalyzed, he’d easily blow over the legal limit. I kept an eye out for cops, half-forgetting that Dolan was a cop himself.
Once close to St. Terry’s, we found street parking within two cars of each other on the same block of Castle. It was now fully dark and the hospital was lit up like a lavish resort. We went in through the rear entrance and took the elevator to 6 Central, the oncology floor. The lights had been dimmed, and the wide, carpeted corridor muffled our footsteps. Three spare IV poles and two blood pressure monitors were clustered against the wall, along with a linen cart and a multitiered meal cart filled with trays from the dinner served earlier. I caught sight of a few visitors, but there was none of the lively interplay between patients and family members. Getting well takes work and no one wants to waste energy on superficial conversation. Passing the nurses’ station, Dolan gave a nod to the clerk at the desk.
Stacey was in a private room, looking out on a darkened residential street. He seemed to be sleeping, his hospital bed elevated at a forty-five-degree angle. Poking out from under his red-knit watch cap were wisps of ginger-colored hair. Two get-well cards were propped upright along the wide windowsill, but there was nothing else of a personal nature. The television screen was blank. On his rolling bed table, there were a pile of magazines and a paper cup filled with melting ice.
Dolan paused in the doorway. Stacey’s eyes came open. He waved and then pushed himself up on the bed. “I see you made it,” he said, and then to me, “You must be Kinsey. Nice to meet you.” I leaned forward and shook his hand. His grip was strong and hot, almost as though he were metabolizing at twice the normal rate.
While Dolan went about the business of rounding up chairs from opposite corners of the room, I said, “I believe you knew the guys who trained me—Morley Shine and Ben Byrd.”
“I knew them well. Both good men. I was sorry to hear about Morley’s murder. That was a hell of a thing. Have a seat.”
“Thanks.”
Dolan offered me one chair and settled in the other. While the two of them chatted, I studied Stacey. He had small mild blue eyes, pale brows, and a long, deeply creased face. His color was good, though it looked as though he hadn’t shaved for days. He seemed to be in good spirits and he spoke with all the vigor of an active man.
After some preliminary conversation, Dolan brought the subject around to the Jane Doe investigation. “I gave Kinsey the file to read. We thought we should talk about where we go from here. The doc still talking about letting you out tomorrow?”
“Looks that way.”
The two of them chatted about the case while I kept my mouth shut. I don’t know why I’d expected Stacey to resist Dolan’s proposition, but he didn’t seem at all opposed to our resurrecting the case. He said to Dolan, “Speaking of which, Frankie Miracle got out. His parole officer, Dench Smallwood, called me and said Frankie found a place in town. By now, he probably has legitimate employment.”
“That’d be a first.”
I said, “How does Frankie Miracle fit in? I remember his name from the file.”
Dolan said, “He got picked up in Lompoc August 1, two days before Jane Doe’s body was found. We always figured he was good for it, though he denied it.”
Stacey spoke up. “He killed his girlfriend in Venice, July 29, during a meth binge. He stabbed the woman umpteen times, then he helped himself to her car and all her credit cards and started driving north. She was found a couple days later when neighbors complained about the smell.”
“Dumb-ass signed her name to the charge slips every time he stopped for gas,” Dolan said. “You’d think someone would notice a ‘Cathy Lee Pearse’ with no boobs, a mustache, and a two-day growth of beard.” He shifted in his chair and then rose to his feet. “You two go on and get acquainted. Time for me to step outside and grab a smoke.”
Once Dolan left, I said, “You ha
ve a theory why Jane Doe was never identified?”
“No. We expected a quick match, someone who’d recognize her from the description in the papers. All I can think is she wasn’t reported missing. Or maybe the missing-persons report got buried in the paperwork on some cop’s desk. There’s probably an explanation, but who knows what it is? By now, it’s unlikely we’ll ever find out who killed her, but there’s a possibility we can get her ID’d and returned to her folks.”
“What are the chances?”
“Not as bad as you might think. Once enough time passes, people are more willing to speak up. We might tweak someone’s conscience and get a lead that way.” He hesitated, taking a moment to smooth the edges of his sheet. “You know, Con’s wife, Gracie, died a while back.”
“He mentioned that.”
“It hit him hard at the time, but he seemed to be pulling out of it. But ever since he got sidelined with this heart condition, the guy’s been in a funk. As long as Gracie was alive, she seemed to keep him in check, but now his smoking and booze consumption are out of control. I’ve been trying to find a way to get him back on track, so the minute this came up, I jumped on it.”
“You’re talking about Jane Doe?”
“Right. I was happy you agreed to help. It’ll give him a lift. He needs to work.”
I smiled with caution, listening for any hint of irony in his tone. Apparently, he didn’t realize Dolan had voiced the very same concerns about him.
