The Wedding Guest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I smiled. “That theory made it into Jane Doe’s summary.”

  “Ah! You have found me out, Dr. Delaware. Yes, I slipped it by. In any event, Skiwski was apprehended and bound over for trial.”

  Milo said, “How’d he get caught?”

  “Another prostitute saw him leaving with the victim and the victim’s blood was recovered from his clothing. He never confessed but he had no alibi or explanation. Also, he had a criminal record.”

  “For what?”

  “Theft, drunkenness. More important, aggressions on women.”

  “What kind of aggressions?”

  “Beatings, intimidation.”

  I said, “Sounds like low impulse control. When he graduated to murder he got sophisticated?”

  “All I know is what I saw on the table. In any event, a month or so after Skiwski’s arrest, he hung himself in his cell.”

  “Did he use another guitar string?”

  “Towels,” she said. “For himself, he was gentler.”

  I said, “How old was he?”

  “Thirties—late thirties if I recall correctly. Why do you ask?”

  Milo understood the question. “That’s old enough to have done it before.”

  Lopatinski’s eyes rounded. Soft, golden brown. A woman who saw death daily but hadn’t been twisted into something dry and acrid. “You think it was a serial?”

  I said, “It’s the kind of crime you see in serials.”

  Basia Lopatinski thought about that. “Yes, you’re making sense. I don’t believe the police found any matching crimes. Did they look for any?”

  World-weary shrug.

  She picked up the gnawed slice of bread. “Even had I thought of it, I’m not sure I would have suggested it. We were liberated in 1992 but attitudes persisted. Don’t rock boats.”

  “And now you’ve got no theorizing.”

  “What can I say, Dr. Delaware? One gets used to cognitive limits but the imagination persists.” Another three nibbles washed down by tea. “Eight years ago, and then it turns up again, here. You see why I wanted to let you know.”

  Milo said, “Deeply appreciated, Doctor. Was Skiwski’s case publicized?”

  I got on my phone.

  Basia Lopatinski said, “In local papers, of course.”

  “Including the details—the guitar string?”

  “Including that.”

  “What about international exposure?”

  “Did someone in L.A. read about it and decide to imitate? I have no idea how widely the story circulated.”

  I held up my phone. “Nothing comes up here.”

  Lopatinski said, “Perhaps it was covered in a Polish American paper. I will check, if you’d like.”

  Milo said, “We’d definitely like.”

  An expansive grin seemed to bisect her face. “May I assume you won’t—how do you say—rat me out?”

  “To Eschermann? God forbid,” said Milo.

  Lopatinski stared at him, then laughed. “You must be a detective.”

  “On good days.”

  I said, “An alternative to international coverage is someone living in Poland back then who moved here. Or corresponding with someone in Poland.”

  “And then they decide to imitate? Psychopathic contagion?” said Lopatinski. “I had a case when I was in medical school in Poznan. Teenage girls coming down with what looked like bedbug bites that turned out to be psychosomatic eczema. One after the other, they’d break out into lesions. An entire school was quarantined before the truth emerged. But that is far from imitative murder.”

  “Not contagion,” I said. “Just someone seeing possibilities.”

  Lopatinski’s mouth narrowed as if yanked by a drawstring. First time she’d displayed anything other than cheer. “I reported all of my observations to a detective and he passed them along to a reporter as his own insight. I would hate to think that my communication was in any way responsible for a copycat.”

  Milo said, “You did what you were supposed to, some idiot blabbed to the press. It’s always gonna happen. Unless no one ever talks to anyone about anything and that kinda sounds like the bad old days in Poland, no?”

  “A detective and a psychologist?” said Lopatinski. To me: “Your good influence?”

  Milo said, “What, I can’t be warm and fuzzy on my own? Bottom line, Doc, you’ve really helped, here. Thanks for going the extra mile. So was this piece of shit a decent musician?”

  “Quite the contrary, Lieutenant,” said Basia Lopatinski. “Everyone said he played out of tune.”

  * * *

  —

  He renewed his offer of indulgences from the butcher and when Lopatinski turned him down with a demure head shake, he thanked her again. As we headed for the door, he veered to the display counter.

  “Pastries actually look pretty okay.”

  He bought two dozen mixed, returned to Lopatinski’s table, and put the box down.

  She said, “What’s this?”

  “Thanks from the department.”

  “Really—”

  “No argument, Doc. You go beyond the call of duty, you get refined sugar.”

  * * *

  —

  Outside the restaurant, he eyed the butcher shop for a moment, walked on by. “Now what? I subtly ask everyone at the wedding if they’ve ever been to Poland?”

  “It’s the age of self-advertisement,” I said. “People put their vacations online. Why not start with Corinne and Denny. Maybe they like to travel.”

  In the car, he punched numbers on a phone.

  A subdued Corinne said, “VCR Staffing.”

  “Hi, it’s Milo Sturgis. That story about Denny in Hawaii. Is that the only place he’s done it?”

  “Probably. He just got caught that time.”

  “Where have you guys traveled?”

  “Why’re you asking this?”

  “Trying to get to know him.”

  “I’ve told you everything you need to know: He’s an asshole.”

  “So no European—”

  “Of course we’ve been to Europe.” A beat. “Not for a while—at least ten years ago…no, thirteen. Baby was in high school, off on a senior trip. I’d travel all over the place but he likes the sun so it’s Costa Rica, Mexico, Belize, all that. He spends his time cooking his skin and checking out bikinis. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll contract melanoma or something.”

  “Europe’s too cold.”

  “Depends when you go. I used to like it in Paris. I mean no matter the weather, how bad can Paris be?”

  “Paris, Rome, it’s all good. Heard Prague’s nice. Hungary, Poland, also, nowadays.”

  “One of my friends told me Prague’s gorgeous,” said Corinne. “Maybe I’ll go by myself.” Her voice caught. “Maybe Paris wasn’t as good as I’m remembering. Maybe every time he went off on his own to take a walk he was doing something gross, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “Sorry,” said Milo.

  “No sorrier than me. This call, is he actually a suspect? I mean do I need to move out for my personal safety?”

  Milo said, “He’s not, Corinne, and I couldn’t advise you to do that unless he’s been violent to you or threatened to be.”

  “Never lifted a finger, Lieutenant. Rarely raises his voice, he just…makes me feel alone. I’ve always thought of him as a coward. Except when he used to surf. He was brave about tackling big waves—God, this is depressing, I really don’t like talking about it.”

  Click.

  Milo shook his head. “Your local constabulary, spreading good cheer.”

  * * *

  —

  While I drove back to the station, he got back on his phone and checked the Rapfogels’ social network to verify what Corinne had sa
id. Only one trip memorialized. Instagram posting of the couple eating gigantic lobsters in what looked like a rain forest. She, bored, looking to the side, he hunched over his meal, a bib full of stains.

  He said, “Denny’s as red as the crustaceans, she just might get her wish.”

  In the time it took us to get back, he’d run similar searches on the Burdettes and the Mastros. “Nope, they keep it domestic. Nebraska and national parks.”

  Up in his office, he said, “Last try: the happy couple…here we go…Tahoe…San Francisco…Two Bunch Palms out in the desert…apparently no one’s into pierogi.”

  I said, “Speaking of the happy couple.”

  “You think it’s time?”

  “They were the primary victims and Red Dress is closer to their age than to their parents’.”

  He scrolled and found the address Garrett had listed. “East of here, near La Cienega and Olympic. Be a few hours until he’s off work.”

  “Why not talk to Baby alone?”

  “Yeah, might be interesting. If she talks.”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “I’m a bad memory—hell, why not try a solo. But I want to be there when Garrett arrives, kill two birds, and that’s still a way off. You know what? I’m gonna sit here and go through the whole damn list of names from the invite list and search for a magical Slavic connection. I don’t want to keep you, go home and be normal.”

  “And have to drive back for Baby and Garrett?”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  * * *

  —

  We took the list to a deli near the station, ordered a pot of coffee, and reserved a corner booth courtesy Milo’s usual extravagant cop tip.

  His phone, my phone, both of us squinting and delving into the travel habits of total strangers.

  Two hours later, not a single reference to Poland though a few people had been to Prague and one couple had thought Budapest interesting.

  He said, “Gotta talk to the Polish tourist bureau, they’re falling down on the job. Okay, my head hurts, let’s see if Baby’s in her crib.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  The newlyweds lived on the ground floor of a twenties, white stucco Spanish fourplex on Holt Avenue just south of Olympic.

  Garrett Burdette answered the bell-ring. Home early.

  “Lieutenant,” he said.

  He wore black horn-rimmed glasses, a blue oxford cloth button-down, gray wool slacks, black loafers. In L.A., CPA work clothes.

  From behind him: “Who is it, honey?”

  He kept his eyes on us. “She’s not feeling well.”

  Milo said, “Sorry ’bout that, if it’s a bad time—”

  “Who is it, Gar?”

  He frowned and swung the door wide. Baby’s small body was curled on a pale-blue sofa, a bag of corn chips in her lap. She wore a black tank top and white yoga pants. No tissues, no blanket, no cup of hot tea. Maybe she was tougher than the Valkyrie.

  She said, “Oh, hi, guys.” Brightly, no trace of nasal congestion. Or resentment. “Don’t let them stand there, honey.”

  Garrett stepped aside. The apartment was barely furnished but for the couch and two folding chairs. Cardboard boxes were lined up against a wall along with stacks of wrapped gifts. The air smelled of ripe fruit and petrochemicals, the source of the aroma a pear-shaped room deodorizer plugged into a corner socket.

  Freshly painted walls were bare except for a large, framed color photo of Brearely Rapfogel in a filmy white dress. Sitting in a field of lupine, looking like something from Renoir.

  Kindred spirit of the Valkyrie?

  She waved at us. Her hair was loose, her eyes clear. A lovely young woman. The absence of makeup made her prettier.

  “Would you like something to drink. Or some of these? I’ve got another bag.” Holding out the chips.

  “No, thanks, Ms.—is it Burdette or Rapfogel, now?”

  “It’s Mrs. Burdette,” she said. “I decided I’m traditional.”

  She smiled at her husband of six days and extended a languid hand. He took it and she tugged him down gently beside her. Holding on to his fingers, she leaned a head on his shoulder, placed her other hand on his knee.

  Garrett’s expression was that of a kid who’d been given an expensive violin and had no idea how to play it.

  Baby began stroking the top of his hand. He lowered his attention to his lap. Crossed his legs protectively.

  Milo said, “Sorry you’re not feeling well, Mrs. Burdette.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “A little tummy upset when I woke up. I told Gar he didn’t need to come home but he’s my super sweetie and insisted. Thank you, honey.”

  Garrett shrugged. “Easy day.”

  “That’s because you’re so smart.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m actually feeling better, honey. Maybe we can go out and find a food truck or something? I could really go for a street taco.”

  “Sure.”

  “Awesome.” She smiled at us. “You’re probably thinking this chick is nuts—bipolar or something. The last time you saw me I was like a total bitchzilla.”

  “No, you weren’t,” said Garrett.

  “Not in the least,” said Milo. “What a terrible thing to go through.”

  “It was,” said Baby Burdette, “it really was. But I didn’t show my best side.” She shuddered, like a puppy shedding water. “But that’s all in the past, the future’s what counts. And the present. Our present is awesome, I’ve got the best guy.”

  Garrett mumbled, “Thanks, Baby.”

  “I mean it, honey.” She sat up straight. “So. Are you guys here to give us the good news that you solved it? I keep thinking about that poor, poor, poor girl. I know when you talked to me it was like I didn’t care. Honestly, I probably didn’t, not then, I was so…I couldn’t focus. But now I can. And I keep thinking about her. Who is she?”

  Her cheeks puffed and she exhaled.

  Milo said, “Afraid we still don’t know.”

  Both newlyweds stared at us.

  “So why are you here?” said Garrett.

  “You can’t find out anything?” said Baby.

  Milo said, “Unfortunately, she had no I.D. and no one at the wedding seems to know her.”

  “Can’t you just go on—I don’t know—a missing persons site or something?”

  Milo smiled. “We have.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Don’t mean to say you’re not doing your job, it’s just, how can someone be…like a ghost? Especially with computers.”

  Garrett said, “If people want to get lost, it’s easy.”

  His wife turned, seemed to study him. “What does that mean?”

  “Computers go both ways,” he said. “People think the internet has opened up the world and that’s true to an extent. But it’s also closed it, because people can hide behind fictitious identities. Right, Lieutenant?”

  Baby continued to look at him, baffled. “But can’t you just…hack them?”

  “Sometimes. But there’s always a struggle between the hiders and finders.” To us: “My firm had a client with an employee who absconded with funds. She prepared for it by laying down a misleading cyber-trail. They still haven’t recovered the money.”

  “You do stuff like that?” said Baby. “Detection?”

  Garrett’s smile hovered between affection and condescension. “No, I just handle tax returns, Baby. The client is looking for the maximal write-off so I had to know the details.”

  “Wow.”

  “No big deal.”

  “It’s a huge deal, honey. I’m so proud of you. So why are you here, guys?”

  Milo said, “Follow-up. Looking to see if you’ve thought of anything.”

  “I tried to think,” said Baby. “I really wanted t
o figure it out. But I couldn’t.”

  We turned to Garrett.

  He said, “If I had to guess, I’d say she was a crasher.”

  Milo said, “Why’s that?”

  “No one knows her.”

  “Did you have any other crashers?”

  “Not that I know.”

  “Not that I know, either,” said Baby. “But that movie—the two guys who crash all the time? Owen Wilson—obviously, it happens.”

  Garrett said, “Maybe it got out that we were going to have an awesome party and she figured she’d mooch but someone followed her.”

  “Followed her,” said Milo.

  “Well, yeah. We don’t know people like that.”

  “For sure,” said Baby. “I like your theory, honey. Just a crazy thing. What do you think, Lieutenant?”

  “It’s certainly possible.”

  Looking satisfied, Baby Burdette ate corn chips.

  Milo gave me a whenever-you’re-ready look. The dialogue we’d prepped.

  I said, “So when are you guys going on your honeymoon?”

  “We were gonna do it in a month, now we’re hoping for a couple of months,” said Baby. “It’s a little mixed up. I want to get a job but I don’t want to start something and then ask for time off. We’re still trying to figure it out.”

  “What kind of job are you interested in?”

  “Fashion marketing. That’s always been my passion.”

  I said, “Speaking of fashion, the victim’s dress was Fendi.”

  Milo smiled. Improvisation.

  “Really,” said Baby. “That’s horrible.”

  Garrett said, “That it was Fendi?”

  “That it mattered enough to her to wear Fendi. I mean something that awesome, you don’t just throw it on. Even if you are crashing. You’re…appreciating.”

  Her eyes clouded. “Even if she was crashing, she was respecting us, honey. It wouldn’t have even hurt us, one more person, some drinks, guacamole. Right?”