by James Ellroy
He picked walnuts and grapes. He slept in boxcars. He poured the pork to numerous women. He cut a wide indigent swath. Butch queers rode the rails then. They dogged his handsome ass. He kicked their asses good.
Bill and I laughed. Bill called Kern County "El Monte North." I called it "Dogdick, Egypt." We were white-trash postgrads. Disorder and poverty scared us. We trashed it with postgrad license. We were like blacks calling each other "nigger."
The kid did Youth Authority time, and he got paroled. He split the San Gabriel Valley. He pulled a postgrad rape here in Kern County.
We hit Fresno at dinnertime. It was too late to hit Betty's parents. We booked three hotel rooms and ate at a chain coffee shop. Angus reprised his travelogue. I drifted in and out of it. I had the kid in my brain-sights.
Bud Bedford lived in a trailer park between two freeway ramps. His trailer was small and dirty inside and out.
He lived with his long-term girlfriend and a small, bug-eyed dog. The dog perched on his wife's lap and showed Bill his teeth. He stared at Bill and sustained a low growl throughout the whole interview.
Bill and I flanked Bud Bedford. Bill laid out the investigation and emphatically cleared Betty's husband. Bud Bedford stared at a neutral point between us. He sucked on a cigar stub and took the smoke in deep. His girlfriend stared at him. The dog stared at Bill.
Bedford was seventy-something. His hands twitched. His face twitched. He looked frail and nihilistically inclined. A good blast of cigar smoke could debilitate or kill him.
He did not react to Bill's pitch in any discernible manner.
I said, "Tell me about BettyJean."
Bedford said, "She was a good girl and a good mother."
I said, "What else can you tell us?"
Bedford said, "She shouldn't have got mixed up with Bill Scales."
I backed off. My questions were taking me nowhere. I wanted perceptive or passionate answers. I wanted to know if Betty Jean still lived in her father's mind and if he fought to keep her there.
Bill took over. He asked specific questions and let Bedford ramble. I listened for signs of fatherly love in the mix.
He broke up with Betty's mom when Betty was 8 or 9. They fought some custody battles. She got Betty first. He got her second. Bill Scales married her. Bill was plain no-good. He was scared that Bud would get custody of the kids he had with Betty. He hid them with his sister so Bud couldn't see them. Bud hired a private eye. He wanted to get the goods on Bill Scales. The P.I. infiltrated a bike gang Scales allegedly rode with. Bud paid him $500. The guy took his money and never turned up shit.
Scales was no outlaw biker He was an amateur motorcycle racer.
The monologue winded Bedford. His voice broke a few times. I didn't know if he was fighting emotion or exhaustion. I didn't know if he was reliving the loss of his daughter or the weight of his hardscrabble years.
I didn't bring up my murder story. I tried to get some empathy going with Betty Jean's daughter and got nowhere. That interview went nowhere. I didn't want a repeat here.
Bud Bedford hated Bill Scales. It felt like a property beef. He ceded his daughter to the man who he thought killed her or let her die. Ownership infractions. Bud set Betty up in her own pad and cut off the rent when he caught her in bed with some guy. Bill Scales assumed ownership then.
Bill got out his mouth swabs and explained the procedure. Bud Bedford put his cigar down and rinsed his mouth with water. He took a swab and ran it-all over his gums.
I thanked the Bedfords and walked to the door. The dog growled at me.
Betty's mother was named Lavada Emogene Nella. She lived in a board-and-care home in middle-class Fresno.
Bill called ahead. Mrs. Nella and her companion met us. We sat down in the dayroom. Old people on walkers pushed by.
Mrs. Nella was attractive and perfectly groomed. She was young and fit by rest-home standards.
Her eyes darted and latched onto fixed targets and went blank while she retained eye contact.
I said, "Tell me about Betty Jean."
Mrs. Nella called her daughter a "chatterbox" and a "homebody" and a "sweet-natured girl" who "only wanted to be a good wife and mother." Things tended to confuse Betty Jean. She was outgoing and shy at the same time. She relied on other folks to make her decisions.
Bill mentioned Betty's marriage. Mrs. Nella said it was difficult. Bill Scales was cold and dictatorial.
Bill mentioned physical abuse. Betty Jean's daughter described her dad as hard and domineering. That accusation dominated her interview.
Mrs. Nella said no. Bill Scales didn't need to hit. He had Betty under his thumb without resorting to violent behavior. He controlled Betty with his knowledge of how much she loved him.
I said, "He didn't kill her."
Mrs. Nella said, "Oh, I knew that. The police cleared him back when it happened."
Bill said we had a hot suspect now. We might be able to close the case officially.
Mrs. Nella lit up. Her eyes slipped into focus.
Her companion showed me some press clippings. I read an L.A. Times piece from March '73. It described the escalating murder rate in El Monte. The ironic postscript: The Scales case was the first unsolved murder since "Jean Elroy in 1956."
They misspelled my mother's name. They got the year of her death wrong. It pissed me off more than it should have.
Mrs. Nella gave us a cell scraping. She said she never got to say good-bye to Betty. The police said she was too far decomposed.
We drove back to El Monte. Tom Armstrong got the file from the Bakersfield PD and let us read through it.
The kid's name was Robert Leroy Polete Jr. His last name was pronounced Po-lay. He married Vonnie in April '76. He entered the United States Navy in September '76. He completed basic training. He was assigned to the Naval Air Station in Lemoore, California. Lemoore is near Bakersfield and Fresno.
Polete was arrested on 2/8/7 7. The charges:
FELONY, IN FOUR COUNTS, TO WIT: RAPE, 261 PC/KIDNAPPING, 209 PC/ROBBERY, 211 PC/ORAL COPULATION, 288A PC.
2/4/77:
Polete leaves Lemoore air station. His intention: to visit his wife in Hacienda Heights. Hacienda Heights is in the San Gabriel Valley.
Polete has $5. It won't get him out of Kern County. He buys a $4 bus ticket. He lands in Bakersfield at 8:25 P.M.
He doesn't know what to do. He wants to see his wife. She's about to be evicted from her apartment. He's nursing a grudge. The navy should have stationed him down in L.A.
Polete walks around the bus depot. He contemplates a purse snatch and rejects the notion. If he grabs a purse in the depot and buys a ticket south, the cops will bust him right here.
He leaves the depot. He walks by the Pacific Telephone Building. He spots a woman. He follows her to a '74 Honda Civic.
The woman gets in the car and pulls out. The driver's-side door is unlatched. Polete opens it. He places a knife against the woman's neck and says, "Move over or you're dead."
The victim says, "You can have my car if you let me out." Polete says, "Don't give me any lip." The victim slides into the passenger seat.
Polete drives a short distance northwest. He pulls into a parking lot and stops the car. He tells the victim to crawl into the backseat and undress.
The victim complies. Polete tells her to lie on her stomach. The victim complies. Polete ties her hands behind her back. He uses her bra, her panties, and a swimsuit top.
Polete orders the victim to turn over and sit up. She complies. Polete gets into the backseat. He kisses her and fondles her genitalia. He sticks two fingers in her vagina and sticks the same two fingers in her mouth.
He orally copulates the victim. He rapes her. He wipes his penis with the victim's clothing.
He goes through her purse. He finds $7 in change. He says, "You sure are rich." The victim says she's got another $6 in bills.
Polete steals the money. He drives to a dark field off the Rosedale Highway. He marches the victim sixty-five
yards in and orders her to sit down. The victim complies. Polete scatters her clothes out of sight.
He tells the victim not to leave for ten minutes. He says, "I know where to find you." He tells the victim not to call the cops-- because he's got her ID and he's got friends who'll get her if anything happens to him. He says he'll drop the car off in Fresno. If anything happens to him or the car, his insurance will take care of it. He says, "I'm sorry, but I had to do this. I've been treated badly."
Polete drives off. The victim finds her clothes and walks to a gas station. She calls her father. Her father calls the Bakersfield PD and reports the incident.
Polete drives to Hacienda Heights. He spends the weekend with his wife. He returns to Lemoore air station early Sunday night.
Tuesday, 2/8/77:
Polete calls the victim's mother--collect. He uses the phone in his office.
The victim's mother does not accept the call. Polete gives her a call-back number and ID's himself as "Security Officer Johnson." He says he has information on her daughter's car.
Polete hangs up. The victim's mother calls the victim. The victim calls the Bakersfield PD. She talks to DetectiveJ. D.Jackson. She says a "Security Officer Johnson" called her mother. The man implied her car was somewhere at Lemoore air station. He left a number: (209) 998-9827. -
Detective Jackson calls the number. Polete answers. Jackson asks him about the car. Polete says Johnson is handling it. Jackson says he'd like to talk to him. Polete says Johnson is out. Jackson tells him to secure the car. Polete says he will.
Jackson talks to his supervisor. They've got a lead on the missing car in the 2/4 rape. The supervisor calls Lemoore. He contacts the chief of security. The chief tells him that Airman R. L. Polete told him the following story:
Polete was hitching back to the station last Sunday night. A man in a Honda Civic picked him up. The man pulled a knife. He told Polete that he stole the car from a woman in Bakersfield. He told him to call her on Tuesday and make sure she got the car.
Polete balked. The man gave him a phone number for the woman's mother. The man stole Polete's ID papers. They showed his address in Hacienda Heights. The man said he'd better comply--or his wife would have problems.
Detective Jackson and Detective J. L. Wheldon drove to Lemoore. They questioned Airman Polete. He strongly resembled their victim's description. Polete told them his hitchhiking story. Jackson and Wheldon poked holes in it. They read Polete his Miranda rights. Polete started sobbing. He said he stole the Honda. He described the events preceding the theft.
From the Bakersfield PD report:
Polete said he had to see his wife. He needed bus fare. He was stuck in Bakersfield. He figured he'd snatch a purse.
He saw this girl. He pulled his knife and jumped into her car. He stated his intention: to drop her off someplace safe and split with the car.
He drove off. Polete said the girl came on to him. She rubbed his leg up near his crotch. He said, "Don't do that, I'm married-- all I want is the car."
The girl said, "If you're going to take the car, you might as well take everything." She groped him again. She said, "Let's pull over somewhere--get in the backseat and do it."
Polete said he'd do it--"if she promised to leave him alone." The girl got in the backseat and took all her clothes off. They drove to a dark field.
The girl pulled him into the backseat. She started kissing him. She asked him to give her some head. Polete refused. The girl said she wouldn't make hini do it.
They had intercourse. Polete got back in the front seat. The girl said, "You said you were going to leave me off somewhere. Let's go."
Polete dropped the girl off on the other side of the freeway. He found $5 on the floorboard and took it. He drove down to Hacienda Heights.
Jackson and Wheldon booked Polete on four felony counts: 261, 209, 211, and 288A. The victim viewed a mug shot spread and identified him. Jackson and Wheldon got a warrant and searched Polete's locker. They found the clothes the victim said Polete was wearing.
The prelim was held on 3/1/77. Polete was held to answer for the 261 and 209 charges.
He went to trial on 7/5/77. He pleaded guilty. His lawyer said he should. His lawyer thought he could get him tagged as an MDSO--a Mentally Disordered Sex Offender.
His lawyer thought he could get him some state-hospital time. His lawyer miscalculated.
The judge gave Polete the maximum sentence. Two terms prescribed by law--to run consecutively. The court transcript stated:
"I think he is a serious menace to the people of this community and any other community that he would live in. I want to make sure that he doesn't get out for a long, long time."
I went through the rest of the file. Polete was denied parole in '83, '92, '93, '94, and '96.
Three to life. Two consecutive terms. Twenty years and four months inside. It was unknown why Polete was denied parole.
Bill and I discussed it. Bill's take: Polete fucked up inside or was recognizably psycho and unable to con the parole board.
He was locked down at CMC. He couldn't hurt women there.
It wasn't enough. He was up for parole late in '98.
The DNA prescreen flopped. They found blood on the victim's sweater and no semen on her panties. The next step: to examine the rest of the garments for semen.
The result derailed Bill's plan of attack. He needed a verified semen stain. The lab could run it against Bill Scales's DNA. A negative hit would indicate unidentified ejaculate. Bill could take that result and get a search warrant. The warrant would empower him to extract a fluid sample from Robert Leroy Polete.
We discussed options. Bill said it boiled down to a face-to-face talk. He would interview Polete.
We went back to the file. We wanted to make sure we didn't overlook a single bit of data. We pulled odd note sheets and found new names to run. We got one positive hit.
John Fentress rode bikes with Bill Scales. He joined the El Monte PD in '73. His wife knew BettyJean.
We met him at the El Monte Station. I said, "Tell me about BettyJean."
Fentress said she was talkative and mentally slow. She was totally in love with Bill Scales. Scales was the boss. Betty went along with the program.
Betty struggled with her marriage. He doubted if Scales ever hit her.
Bill and I went back to the file. We reviewed the physical evidence and hypothetically reconstructed the crime.
Bloodstains on the truck seat. Small drips and spatters inconsistent with the victim's massive head wounds. Hypothetical conclusion: Polete or the unknown assailant did not transport the body to the gravel pits. The seat would have been badly bloodstained if he drove the body any good distance. It all went down in the truck.
He kidnapped her. He hijacked the truck. He drove her to the gravel pits. He assaulted her and killed her there and dumped her immediately.
Hypothetically:
She's nude. He raped her on the seat. He orders her out of the truck. She refuses. She thinks he intends to take her somewhere and kill her.
He's standing outside the truck. He grabs the staple-bat. He tries to pull the victim out of the cab. She resists. She's facedown. He hits her on the back of the head and caves her skull in.
He pulls her out of the cab. Her head brushes the seat back and passenger door and leaves stains. He throws her into the pit.
A sound hypothesis. In sync with aspects of Polete's MO. Suitable for other unknown suspects.
Bill called the prison. He arranged to interview Robert Leroy Polete. I felt the case veer toward a dead-end metaphysic.
I knew that static level intimately. It defined my mother's case.
Knowledge did not equal provability. Faulty memories spawned misinformation. Hypothetical renderings imposed logic on chaotic events and were rarely confirmed by firsthand accounts. Evidence was misplaced. Witnesses died. Their heirs revised and retold their stories inaccurately. Consensus of opinion seldom equaled truth. The passage of time and new perpetua
tions of horror deadened the reaction to old horror. Victims were defined as victims exclusively.
I was able to deconstruct my mother's victimhood. I gathered an ambiguous array of facts and sifted them through reminiscence and my will to claim and know her. I had memories and personal perception to guide me. My witnesses supplied me with diverse testimonial lines. I was able to discredit or credit them from an informed perspective. I was able to establish the extent to which my mother's free will raged and smeared the ink on her own death warrant.
Betty's death defied deconstruction. Her witnesses defined her unambiguously. I reluctantly bought their consensus. I wanted to accumulate odd bits of data and credit Betty with a bold streak or a secret mental life. I did not want to form her in my mother's image or remake her as anything but who she was. I only wanted proof that she'd lived more. I wanted it for her sake.
The dead-end metaphysic blitzed my shot at my mother's killer. We never approached a live suspect.
We had a live suspect now. We had knowledge and a shot at provability.
5
10:20A.M. Thursday, 11/20/97:
THE CALIFORNIA MEN'S COLONY AT SAN LUIS OBISP0. SERGEANT BILL STONER REPRESENTING SHERIFF'S HOMICIDE. DETECTIVE GARY WALKER REPRESENTING EL MONTE PD. THE SUSPECT: INMATE ROBERT LEROY POLETE JR. PRISON #B84688.
The interview was held in a small administration office. A window overlooked the prison yard. Bill Stoner sat at a desk. Inmate Polete sat in a chair directly in front of him. Gary Walker sat to the side of the desk and faced Inmate Polete diagonally.
Bill Stoner's first impression of Inmate Polete:
"He looked soft. He was about thirty pounds heavier than his '73 arrest statistics. He had a paunch, and his body wasn't toned. His hair had receded in front. He looked like a blond surfer kid who didn't take care of himself as he got older. He didn't look in any way menacing."
Stoner and Walker identified themselves. They said they were investigating a 1973 murder. Inmate Polete was a suspect then. They read Inmate Polete his Miranda rights.
