by Gregg Olsen
Crime case in the news with the most hits: Patty Ward, a former Miss STP motor oil pinup, was found murdered in her West Hollywood apartment. She'd been submerged in a bathtub of motor oil, her winnings from the pageant. Suspect in custody: her jealous ex-boyfriend.
Possible book title: Slippery When Dead.
Amazon ranking for backlist: No movement. Not up. Not down. My career was flatlining.
Shopping list: Extra interview tapes for the mini-cassette recorder. Flowers for Jeanne.
Chapter Four
Wednesday, July 9
LIKE MY COMPUTER, MY DUAL VCR/DVD PLAYER WAS A RELIC gasping its last breath. Our daughters had used it as an oven for frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts when they were four. And though it had been resuscitated at the repair shop, it was on its last legs. I could not afford a new one, nor afford to get TiVo or Slingbox or Netflix or Amazon Prime or whatever new digital convenience was flooding the market like the latest Justin Timberlake album. With the visitor gone and a DVD I wanted to play, I told Taylor and Hayley they could dehydrate some watermelon or make some turkey jerky in the food dehydrator I had ordered from QVC. I had ordered other things, too—a cleaning system for jewelry and silver my wife and I didn't own; a set of Ginsu knives that could slice a penny like a carrot; even a hand-knotted Persian-style rug for the entry to our home. I didn't buy often, but I did whenever something caught my eye and my Visa had a little breathing room. It had been a while.
My blonde-headed girls decided on watermelon fruit leathers and left for the kitchen.
I turned on the DVD and the familiar music that introduced cable's Rita Adams Show announced its arrival. The show's producers opened this edition with a jigsaw puzzle graphic made up of pictures of the players interlocking in freeform shapes. It was an obvious visual by nearly everyone's standards; yet for a television talk show, it was just short of clever. Yes, there was a puzzle here. The announcer's monologue was peppered with a crime writer's favorite words. Bizarre. Shocking. Murder. Love. Love. Love.
First was a photo of Janet Lee Kerr, her face framed by long straight hair, frozen in a mug-shot grimace. She looked hard, but so very young. She was not a femme fatale by anyone's standards.
"Janet was convicted of the attempted murder of her boyfriend...and the conspiracy to kill her ex-husband."
The next puzzle piece was identified as Deke Cameron, the ex. His was not a mug shot, but a color photo taken during a portrait special at an Olan Mills. He was full in the face, and had the kind of deer-in-the-headlights affect of a man none too bright.
"The victim of the shooting Janet had arranged... testified against her and sent her to prison... but now says he forgives her and—get this—wants to marry her."
A picture of a man identified as Danny Parker flipped onto the screen and interlocked with Janet's photo puzzle piece. He was heavy, blind in one eye, and looking to the right. Another mug shot.
"Danny says Janet told him that she would marry him in a Las Vegas wedding if he killed Deke for her. Danny shot Deke three times ... but Deke didn't die."
The music went louder then cut out all together. I guessed it was someone's idea to emphasize the drama of the story.
"There's more!"
A woman in her fifties with Malibu Barbie blonde hair and another mug shot smirk came into view. It was Connie Carter. She had the tough attitude and the been-around-the-block appearance of the kind of woman guys liked to say could suck-start a Harley.
"Janet's mother Connie is also in prison. She tried to hire a hit man to kill another of Janet's men, her ex-husband Paul Kerr."
Deke Cameron's photo reappeared.
"...It was Deke who told the police of Connie's plan!"
Janet and Connie of course, denied any wrongdoing via satellite from the Washington State Corrections Center for Women at Riverstone. Danny Parker, however, chose not to appear from his cell in Walla Walla. On stage was Paul Kerr, Janet's ex-husband, who had custody of Lindy, Janet and Paul's preschooler. Sitting next to Paul was Janet's boyfriend, Deke Cameron, who now claimed that he had been tricked by the prosecution and police into identifying Janet's involvement in the crime. He was in love with her.
"You say you are still in love with her, but she had you shot!" Rita barked at Deke.
Deke sat silent for a moment. He pulled open the front of a cheap blazer he had more than likely purchased to wear on the show. A camera close-up revealed four white stitches that held the tag in place.
"Well, Rita, love hurts, you know," he said, pointing to his T-shirt from classic rock band Nazareth's "Love Hurts" World Tour.
Rita Adams tried to pin the man down. "You've forgiven her?"
Again, Deke was slow to answer. "Yes. She is a good woman, she's had a hard life, and I'm going to marry her."
"Marry her? She tried to have you killed!"
"That's what they say, but they lie like a rug."
"You testified in court against her, correct?"
"Yes," he said, hesitating, "but I was tricked. I lied. She didn't set me up. The cops and prosecutor did."
Rita turned to the monitor showing Janet, now blowing her nose and sniveling into a tissue.
"Do you love this man?”
“Yes...I do. And Sugarbutt loves me.”
Her mouth agape, Rita looked utterly dumbfounded. "I guess that's some kind of sweet talk. And you are going to marry him?"
"Yes, we are."
Rita exaggerated her disbelief and disgust by shaking her head to and fro.
"Will they let you marry in prison? He's technically the victim of your crime, er, your crimes."
Janet Kerr had miraculously gained her composure. "It's been okayed by the prison counselor."
The camera zoomed in on a middle-aged woman in the third row of the audience. She identified herself as Anna Cameron, Deke's mother. She jumped up and grabbed for Rita's microphone.
"You stay away from my boy!" she yelled at Janet's face on the television monitor. "You almost killed him! Stay away! Stay out of his life. You and your mother are in prison."
The camera cut back to a bewildered Janet. Her eyes wandered as she tried to determine where to direct her response. Of course, she could hear Anna Cameron, but could not see her.
"Mrs. Cameron," she said, "you know I didn't shoot that gun. I love Deke. I only thought he and Danny were going to fight for me."
"If I won," Deke interrupted his mother, who continued her unintelligible rantings from the third row, "Janet and I were going to Vegas to get married. She is a victim of Parker's obsession."
Another lady, further back in the audience, stood up and Rita introduced her as June Parker, Danny's mother. She was a tall, plain woman. Her eyeglass frames were as large and round as bagels, and a silver pin of a horse decorated the right shoulder of a sweater in need of a shave.
She nearly whispered as she spoke.
“I'm so sorry for what my boy did, but it wasn't his fault. He was in love and he didn't mean to hurt anyone. I think Deke provoked him.”
Anna Cameron plunged her way through the audience.
“You liar! Your son is a —bleep!— lovesick killer. I don't fall for none of that poor-us stuff! Your family is the biggest bunch of liars in Timberlake!”
Mrs. Cameron raised a fist and shook it at Mrs. Parker.
"I wish you people would cough up some blood and die!"
With a shudder at the commotion, Rita looked on as a commercial rolled.
I tried to write down all the names of the players when the program came back on with a close-up of the talk show hostess.
"Deke told me something interesting during the break," Rita announced. "We were talking about how it was that his testimony sent these two women to prison. Deke, what did you say?"
Deke Cameron looked at the camera as directly as an anchorman.
"I lied. I lied on the stand. I told them what the prosecutor told me to say. They wanted Janet and Connie to go down for the crimes and they needed me to lie."
A worried look flushed over his full face.
"I guess so. I guess I did lie under oath. But they made me. They really did."
Another commercial, a question from the audience, a commercial and Rita shook her head again. It was over.
I pushed the rewind button and allowed a smile at my good fortune. Maybe, just maybe, this is what my editor was seeking.
"Over-the-top" seemed as good a description as any for what I had just seen.
I looked over the notes I had made as I tried to keep track of who was who among the cast of characters.
Janet Lee Carter Kerr—a twenty-something, for whom the term slacker had been tailor-made. Hard-looking, not completely unattractive. Mother to Lindy. Jett's sister.
Deke Cameron—kind of Joe Palooka-looking fellow, not too bright. Loves Janet. Took a bunch of bullets in the gut because of her. Wants to marry her now. The idiot forgives her. At least thirty years old.
Danny Parker—fat, lazy-eye. The shooter. Another true crime dimwit. Think Joey Buttafuoco, but younger and dumber.
Connie Carter—former bottle blonde, hard-bitten as a tough steak. Conspired with daughter Janet to kill boyfriend Deke and ex-husband. Jett's mother.
Paul Kerr—blue flannel shirt, stubble on his somewhat craggy chin. Ex-husband of Janet. Target of murder plot conceived by Janet and Connie. Nice guy, just married into the wrong family.
If the crazy cast and the crime were any indication, the story Jett Carter brought to me was certainly worth some follow-up. I called the prison to set up an interview appointment with Connie Carter and Janet Kerr.
Mother and daughter agreed to see me the next afternoon. Ca-ching.
Chapter Five
Thursday, July 10
I stood at the entrance of the Ellison County Morgue wishing that I smoked so I'd have an excuse to delay my entrance into the Land of the Dead. When I'd phoned before leaving, a lab worker had confirmed that they were “99 percent sure” that it was Jeanne Morgan they had “on a slab,” but an in-person ID at the morgue would still be helpful.
“You a relative?” the woman on the other end of the line asked.
“No. Just a friend. Do you know the cause of death yet?”
“She got overheated. Hot day, you know. Looks like she had a stroke. The doc is ruling later today. I'm sorry about your friend.”
“Thanks.”
“Does she have family in the area?”
I hated that I really didn't know. “I think they're all out of state.”
“Can you come in? We'd like to get her out of the chiller and out the door as soon as we can. Bodies tend to pile up this time of year. You know, with everyone on vacation.”
“Right. Yes, I know.”
“Well? Can you come in?”
“Yes. I'll be there.”
And there I was. I'd managed to call Jeanne's sister in Portland (Facebook friend, with phone number listed in the About section) with the tragic news. I explained how I was going to meet her sister for coffee and she likely arrived early for some berry picking behind the stores.
“That's when she must have been overcome by the heat and suffered the stroke,” I said.
“She ate too much, vegetarian or not,” the sister shot back. “And after her hip surgery she sat around all day watching TV and reading trash. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said, now knowing why Jeanne never mentioned her sister.
The sister said the family had a burial plot in South Tacoma and they'd hold a service near there as soon at they could. I promised to come.
“You better,” the sister said. “She raved about you.”
And there I was without a cigarette and an excuse. I stepped on the electronic panel that flipped open the doors to the morgue. The cool, stale air from the basement floor of the county building charged at me. I could smell formaldehyde and Caesar salad. It must be lunchtime. As instructed, I pressed a buzzer and waited. A beat later, the knob on a solid wood panel door turned and a middle-aged man in a white lab coat with J. Jackson nametag on the pocket let me inside.
“You Ryan? Here for the Morgan ID?”
I nodded.
“OK, this'll take a second.”
“I don't have to peel back a sheet or anything, do I?”
“Nope. But I guess you know that. You're the crime writer, right?”
“That's right.”
“That's just on TV. In real life no one's embarrassed about their bodies. You know, because, well they're dead. We use a roll of paper towels. Saves dough. No cleaning bill. Just toss 'em before we send the stiffs to—”
He stopped and looked at a clipboard, before continuing. “This one's going to Cleveland's Funeral Home on Western Avenue.”
I followed him down the hall, past the employee break room where the Caesar salad had been leaking garlic and parmesan in the air.
J. Jackson flipped a switch and a blast of yellow light fell over a body on a gurney.
There she was.
My eyes started at the top of her head. Her perfect updo was now a ratty down-do. Her eyebrows so very, very faint. I hadn't realized until that moment the heavy hand Jeanne Morgan must have used to apply her makeup. She looked marshmallow white, almost powdered, so pale. My gaze was like that big roller at a car wash, passing over her slowly, then stopping before continuing on.
She had a scratch on her face and I asked about it.
“Blackberries can be a bitch. Scratches on her hands, too,” J. Jackson said.
She was a smaller woman than her sister gave her credit for. She had tiny hands and tiny feet. I noticed the light tracings of a scar that had indicated where the surgeon had cut her for her hip surgery. Through the thin layer of paper toweling, I could also see the jagged lines of the coroner's knife, the fabled Y-incision—the cut with the alpha initial that always screamed to me “Yield, don't move that scalpel.”
J. Jackson's eyes caught mine. “She was a friend?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Yeah. They found a stash of your books in her van.”
My head bobbed up and down. “She ran my website. She was super....”
I almost started to puff up who and what Jeanne was in life, the way people always seem to do when death comes suddenly. As a writer, I hated that kind of reflex, to gloss over the scabs of a person's life. It usually obscured the true nature of someone's character. No one was perfect, except in tragic death. My eyes landed on her neck. It appeared that there were two slightly darker patches of skin, almost indentations.
“Are you sure this is heatstroke?” I asked.
“Of course, coroner's sure. She died of a stroke. Brain blew up.”
For the first time I noticed why the updo had come undone. The coroner had plugged in a power saw and sliced her skull to examine her brain. That and the garlic turned my stomach.
“But what of those marks around her neck?” I asked.
J. Jackson nodded. “EMTs. Got to love those guys. They don't give up easily. Had a stiff here last week with two broken ribs from another failed resuscitation. Heart attack, that one.”
I'd found out all I could.
“Do me a favor,” I said.
“What's that?”
I could feel my emotions rise, but I kept my focus and hit J Jackson with both barrels.
“Cover her up with a sheet and if you need me to pay for it, bill me. And if you don't, I'll make sure you, your boss's boss, and his boss, are written up for abusing a person in death. Have some respect, Jackson. Would you treat your mother like this? Jeanne Morgan deserves better.”
♦
Forty-eight hours later, Valerie and I were at A small gathering in a Gig Harbor Unitarian church to celebrate Jeanne's life. It wasn't exactly a church, but a banquet room at an Embassy Suites.
“Hi, Kevin Ryan,” said a young man with a soul patch the shape and size of a guitar pick.
I gave him a quick once-over. With his black suit and white shirt, he seemed too well dressed, too young, and the wrong gender for a TC reader. He looked more graphic novel.
“Sorry,” I said, brightening a little, “have we met?”
The young man shrugged. “No. I guessed it was from you from all my Aunt Jeanne's photos on the Memory Board.” He indicated a panel of tagboard with dozens of photos affixed. They were familiar photos, too. Most of them were pictures of me with Jeanne at various events. At the mall. At the library. At a school assembly. At all places, as they say, wherever books were sold.
Val took in the photos and leaned close to my ear. “A perfect ten on the creep-meter.”
“Your aunt was a lovely woman,” I said to the young man. “I thought a lot of her.”
Soul Patch nodded. “Yeah. She was always bragging on you. I figured you were a better person than a writer.”
I figured Soul Patch was a prick.
“Thanks, I appreciate that,” I said, my face growing warm, and I was sure, quite red.
Val tugged at my sleeve. “Beating up a kid at a funeral would be at least an eleven.”
I took a deep breath. “Nice turnout.”
The kid looked around. “Thanks. I put up a Pinterest page for Jeanne. I think I got a few bites.”
The memorial service was short and sweet. I learned for the first time that Jeanne had been a flight attendant and once competed in the Iditarod dog sled race in Alaska, her home state before moving to Washington in 1982. One of the first women to do so. She had five cats. Outside of that, she didn't have much in her life but a love of all things true crime. She liked forensics, courtroom dramas, and knowing that the bad guy usually gets caught in the end.
Tears came to my eyes and Val handed me a tissue. I was sorry Jeanne was gone, of course. But I was even sorrier that I hadn't paid more attention to her story. You never know who's going to end up dead at any given time.
“She was a nice person, Val.”
“I know. A little strange though.”
“How so?”
“Five cats? Kevin, that's creepy. Your biggest fan was a cat lady.”
I didn't answer. I could forgive Jeanne for having five cats. She was, after all, my number one fan.
