The Murder Book

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Milo tugged at the zipper of his windbreaker. "Did Pierce talk much about his work, ma'am?"

  "He didn't talk about specific cases, if that's what you mean. Just how rotten the department was. I think his work poisoned him as much as the speed. When I met him, he'd touched bottom. It was right after Dorothy's death, and Pierce had stopped paying rent on the Simi house— they never bought, just rented. He was living in a filthy motel in Oxnard and earning minimum wage sweeping the floors at Randall's Western Wear. That's where I first saw him. I was doing a show in Ventura, came in to Randall's to look at boots, collided with Pierce when he took out the trash. He knocked me on my rear, we both ended up laughing about it. I liked his laugh. And he made me curious. Someone that age, doing that job. Usually it's young Mexicans. Next time I came in, we talked some more. There was something about him— strong, no wasted words. I'm a gabby type, as you can see. Comes from living alone most of my life, talking to the horses. Talking to myself so as not to go nuts. This land was my grandfather's. I inherited it from my parents. I was the youngest, stayed home to take care of Mom and Dad, never strayed very far. The horses pretend they're listening to me. That's what I liked about Pierce, he was a good listener. Soon, I was making up reasons to drive down to Oxnard." She smiled. "Bought a lot of boots and jeans. And he never knocked me down again."

  She reached for her coffee. "We knew each other a full year before we finally agreed to get married. We did it because we're old-fashioned, no way would either of us live together without paper. But most of what we had was friendship. He was my best friend."

  Milo nodded. "When did Pierce get off speed?"

  "He was already getting off when I met him. That's why he moved into that fleabag. Punishing himself. He had some savings and his pension, but was living like he was a broke bum. Because that's how he thought of himself. By the time we started going out, he was off dope completely. But he was sure it did damage to him. 'Swiss-cheese brain,' he used to call it. Said if they ever x-rayed his head, they'd find holes big enough to stick a finger through. Mostly, it was his balance and his memory— he had to write things down or they were gone. I told him that was just age, but he wasn't convinced. When he told me he wanted to learn how to ride, I worried. Here he was, not a young man, no experience, not the best balance. But Pierce managed to stay in the saddle until . . . The horses loved him, he had a calming influence on them. Maybe because of all he'd been through, getting himself clean. Maybe he ended up at a higher level than if he hadn't suffered. You'll probably find this hard to believe, Detective Sturgis, but during his time with me, Pierce was a blessedly serene man."

  She got up, retrieved the picture atop the TV, held it out to us. Snapshot of Schwinn and her, leaning against the posts of the corral out front. I had only Milo's rawbone Oakie description to fuel my expectation of the former detective and had expected a grizzled old cop. The look. The man in the photo had long, white hair that snaked past his shoulders and a snowy beard that reached nearly to his navel. He wore a peanut-butter-colored buckskin jacket, denim shirt, blue jeans, a turquoise bracelet, one turquoise earring.

  Old-time trapper or geriatric hippie, hand in hand with a sun-punished woman who barely reached his shoulder. I saw Milo's eyes widen.

  "He was my Flower Power Grandpa," said Marge. "Different from when you knew him, huh?"

  "A bit," said Milo.

  She placed the picture in her lap. "So what kind of advice did you hope to get from him on this case of yours?"

  "I was just wondering if Pierce had any general recollections."

  "Something that old and now you're working it again? Who got killed?"

  "A girl named Janie Ingalls. Pierce ever mention that name?"

  "No," she said. "Like I said, he didn't talk about his work."

  "Did Pierce leave any papers behind?"

  "What kind of papers?"

  "Anything to do with his work— newspaper clippings, photos, police mementos?"

  "No," she said. "When he moved out of his Simi house, he got rid of everything. Didn't even own a car. When we went out, I had to pick him up."

  "Back when I knew him," said Milo, "he was a photography buff. He ever get back into that?"

  "Yes, he did, as a matter of fact. He enjoyed taking walks in the hills and capturing nature, bought himself a cheap little camera. When I saw how much he liked it, I bought him a Nikon for his sixty-eighth birthday. His pictures were pretty. Want to see them?"

  She took us to the house's single bedroom, a tidy, pine-paneled space filled by a queen bed covered with a batik spread and flanked by two mismatched nightstands. Framed photos blanketed the walls. Hills, valleys, trees, arroyos dry and flowing, sunrises, sunsets, the kiss of winter snow. Crisp colors, good composition. But nothing higher than vegetable on the evolutionary scale, not even a bird in the sky.

  "Nice," said Milo. "Did Pierce have his own darkroom?"

  "We converted a half bath. Wasn't he talented?"

  "He was, ma'am. When I knew Pierce, he liked to read about science."

  "Did he? Well, I never saw that. Mostly he'd turned meditative. Could just sit in the living room and stare out at the view for hours. Except for the times when he got the cop look or had those dreams, he was at peace. Ninety-nine percent of the time he was at peace."

  "During the one percent," I said, "did he ever say what was bothering him?"

  "No, sir."

  "During the last month or so before his accident, how was his mood?"

  "Fine," she said. Her face clouded. "Oh no, don't go thinking that. It was an accident. Pierce wasn't a strong rider, and he was sixty-eight years old. I shouldn't have let him ride that long by himself, even on Akhbar."

  "That long?" said Milo.

  "He was gone half a day. Usually, he only rode for an hour or so. He had his Nikon with him, said he wanted to catch some afternoon sun."

  "Taking pictures."

  "He never got to. The roll inside his camera was blank. He must've fallen right at the beginning and lain there for a while. I should've gone looking sooner. The doctor assured me that kind of head wound would have taken him right away. At least he didn't suffer."

  "Hit his head on a rock," said Milo.

  She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

  "Sorry, ma'am." Milo stepped closer to the photos on the wall. "These really are good, ma'am. Did Pierce keep any albums of his slides or proofs?"

  Marge stepped around the bed to the left-hand nightstand. Atop the table were a woman's watch and an empty glass. Sliding open a drawer, she removed two albums and placed them on the bed.

  A pair of blue leather books. Fine morocco, a size and style I recognized.

  No labeling. Marge opened one, began turning pages. Photographs encased in stiff plastic jackets, held in place by black, adhesive corner pockets.

  Green grass, gray rock, brown dirt, blue sky. Pages of Pierce Schwinn's fantasy of an inanimate world.

  Milo and I made admiring noises. The second book held more of the same. He ran a finger down its spine. "Nice leather."

  "I bought them for him."

  "Where?" said Milo. "Love to have one for myself."

  "O'Neill & Chapin, right down the road— over by the Celestial Café. They cater to artists, carry quality things. These are originally from England, but they're discontinued. I bought the last three."

  "Where's the third?"

  "Pierce never got to it— you know, why don't I give it to you? I have no need for it and just thinking about Pierce's unfinished business makes me want to cry. And Pierce would've liked that— your having it. He thought a lot of you."

  "Really, ma'am—"

  "No, I insist," said Marge. Crossing the room and stepping into a walk-in closet, she emerged a moment later, empty-handed. "I could swear I saw it up here, but that was a while back. Maybe it's somewhere else . . . maybe Pierce took it over to the darkroom, let's check."

  The converted bathroom was at the end of the
hall, five-by-five, windowless, acrid with chemicals, a narrow, wooden file cabinet next to the sink. Marge slid open drawers, revealed boxes of photographic paper, assorted bottles, but no blue leather album. No slides or proofs, either.

  I said, "Looks like Pierce mounted everything he had."

  "I guess," she said. "But that third book— so expensive, it's a shame to let it go to waste . . . it's got to be here, somewhere. Tell you what, if it shows up, I'll send it to you. What's your address?"

  Milo handed her a card.

  "Homicide," she said. "That word just jumps out at you. I never thought much about Pierce's life before me. Didn't want to picture him spending so much time with the dead— no offense."

  "It's not a job for everyone, ma'am."

  "Pierce— he was outwardly strong, but inside, he was sensitive. Had a need for beauty."

  "Looks like he found it," said Milo. "Looks like he found real happiness."

  Marge's eyes moistened. "You're nice to say so. Well, it's been good meeting you. Coupla good listeners." She smiled. "Must be a cop thing."

  We followed her to the front door, where Milo said, "Did Pierce ever have any visitors?"

  "Not a one, Detective. The two of us hardly ever left the ranch, except to buy provisions, and that was maybe once a month for bulk shopping in Oxnard or Ventura. Once in a while we'd go into Santa Barbara for a movie or to a play at the Ojai Theater, but we never socialized. Tell the truth, we were both darned antisocial. Evenings we'd sit and look up at the sky. That was more than enough for us."

  The three of us walked to the Seville. Marge looked toward the horses, and said, "Hold on, guys, groom time's coming."

  Milo said, "Thanks for your time, Mrs. Schwinn."

  "Mrs. Schwinn," said Marge. "Never thought I'd be Mrs. Anybody, but I do like the sound of that. I guess I can be Mrs. Schwinn forever, can't I?"

  When we got in, she leaned into the passenger window. "You would've liked the Pierce I knew, Detective. He didn't judge anyone."

  Touching Milo's hand briefly, she turned on her heel and hurried toward the corral.

  CHAPTER 14

  Back on Highway 33, I said, "So now we know where the book came from."

  Milo said, "Guy pierces his ear, turns into Mr. Serene."

  "It's California."

  " 'He didn't judge.' You know what she meant by that, don't you? Schwinn decided my being gay was acceptable. Gee, I feel so validated."

  "When you rode together, was he homophobic?"

  "Nothing overt, just general nastiness. But what man of that generation likes queers? I was always on edge with him. With everyone."

  "Fun times," I said.

  "Oh yeah, whoopsie-doo. I always felt he didn't trust me. Finally, he came out and said so but wouldn't explain why. Knowing what we know now, maybe it was speed-paranoia, but I don't think so."

  "Think the department knew about his addiction?"

  "They didn't bring it up when they interrogated me, just concentrated on his whoring."

  "What I find interesting is that they eased him out with full pension rather than bring him up on charges," I said. "Maybe because going public about a doping, whoring cop might have brought other doping, whoring cops to light. Or, it had something to do with handling the Ingalls case."

  Several miles passed before he spoke again. "A speed freak. Asshole was a jumpy insomniac, skinny as a razor, gulped coffee and cough syrup like a vampire chugs blood. Add paranoia and the sudden mood swings, and it's Narco 101, I shoulda seen it."

  "You were concentrating on the job, not his bad habits. Anyway, turns out whatever personal feelings he had toward you, he respected your skills. That's why he had someone send you the book."

  "Someone," he snarled. "He dies seven months ago, and the book arrives now. Think that someone could be good old Marge?"

  "She seemed to be dealing straight with us, but who knows? She's lived alone for most of her life, could've developed some survival instincts."

  "If it was her, what are we dealing with? Schwinn's last wish to wifey-poo? And that doesn't explain why you were the go-between."

  "Same reason," I said. "Schwinn covering his tracks. He pierced his ear but held on to a cop's survival instinct."

  "Paranoid to the end."

  "Paranoia can be useful," I said. "Schwinn had built a new life for himself, finally had something to lose."

  He thought about that. "Okay, put aside who sent the damn thing and shift to the big question: Why? Schwinn held something back about Janie for twenty years and started feeling guilty all of a sudden?"

  "For most of those twenty years, he had other things on his mind. Bitterness toward the department, widowhood, serious addiction. Sinking to the bottom, like Marge said. He got old, kicked his habit, and bought himself a bunch of new distractions: remarriage, easing into a new life. Learning to sit still and stare at the stars. Finally had time to introspect. I had a patient once, a dutiful daughter taking care of her terminally ill mother. A week before the mother passed on, she motioned the daughter over and confessed to stabbing the woman's father with a butcher knife as he lay sleeping. My patient had been nine at the time, all these years, she and the rest of the family had been living with the myth of the bogeyman— some nocturnal slasher. Her life had been a mass of fear and now she learned the truth from an eighty-four-year-old murderer."

  "What, Schwinn knew he was gonna die? The guy fell off a horse."

  "All I'm saying is old age and introspection can be an interesting combination. Maybe Schwinn started reflecting about unfinished business. Decided to communicate with you about Janie, but still wanted to hedge his bets. So he used me as a conduit. If I didn't pass the book on to you, he'd have fulfilled his moral obligation. If I gave it to you and you traced it to him, he'd deal with that. But if you threatened him in any way, he could always deny."

  "He puts together a whole bloody scrapbook just to remind me about Janie?"

  "The book probably started out as a twisted hobby— exorcising his demons. It's no coincidence his later photos had no people in them. He'd seen people at the worst."

  We rode in silence.

  "He sounds like a complicated man," I said.

  "He was a freak, Alex. Pilfered death shots from the evidence room and cataloged them for personal enjoyment. For all I know he got a sexual kick out of the book, then he grew old and couldn't get it up anymore and decided to share." He frowned. "I don't think Marge knew about the murder book. He wouldn'ta wanted her to think of him as a freak. That means someone else sent it to you, Alex. She made like the two of them had built this little domestic cocoon, but I think she was real wrong."

  "Another woman," I said.

  "Why not? Someone he visited when he wanted out from hilltop nirvana. This is a guy who tumbled with whores in the backseat while on duty. I don't have that much faith in transformation."

  "If there was another woman," I said, "she might live far from Ojai. This is a small town, too hard to be discreet. That would explain the L.A. postmark."

  "Bastard." He cursed under his breath. "I never liked the guy, and now he's yanking my chain from the grave. Let's say he did have some big moral epiphany about Janie. What does the book communicate? Where am I supposed to take it? Screw this, I don't have to play this game."

  We didn't talk until I was back on the freeway. At Camarillo, I shifted to the fast lane, pushed the Seville to eighty. He mumbled, "Pedal to the metal . . . bastard starts feeling righteous, and I've got to jump like a trained flea."

  "You don't have to do anything," I said.

  "Damn right, I'm an Amurrican. Entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of unhappiness."

  We crossed the L.A. county line by midafternoon, stopped at a coffee shop in Tarzana for burgers, got back on Ventura Boulevard, hooked a right at the newsstand at Van Nuys, continued to Valley Vista, and on to Beverly Glen. Along the way, I had Milo call my service on his cell phone. Robin hadn't called.

  When we reached my
house, Milo was still in no mood to talk, but I said, "Caroline Cossack sticks in my mind."

  "Why?"

  "A girl poisoning a dog is more than a prank. Her brothers are all over the papers, but she doesn't get a word of newsprint. Her mother ran a debutante ball, but Caroline wasn't listed as one of the debs. She wasn't even included in her mother's funeral. If you hadn't told me the poisoning story, I'd never know she existed. It's as if the family spit her out. Maybe for good reason."

  "The neighbor— that cranky old lady doc— Schwartzman— might've been overly imaginative. She had no use for any of the Cossacks."

  "But her most serious suspicions were of Caroline."