One on One

by Michael Brandman

  The guard shackled Van Cleave’s ankles and cuffed his hands behind his back. Then he marched him out of the conference room.

  “What do you make of that?” Al Striar asked.

  “I’ll let you know once we’ve interviewed Paul Henderson.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Paul Henderson was escorted into the conference room. His shackles were removed and he dropped into the chair on which Ron Van Cleave had been sitting.

  He was an unpleasant young man, emboldened by his physicality, and mean-spirited. He reminded me of a snake, his reptilian black eyes flashing, coiled and ready to strike at any moment. He glowered at us.

  “As I mentioned to Mr. Van Cleave, we’ve invited you here to participate in an informal discussion regarding your association with Henry Carson and your participation in the play parties he organized. You’re not under arrest and you’re not a suspect in Mr. Carson’s murder.”

  “But you busted me and dragged me in here just the same.”

  “We wanted to insure confidentiality.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Deputy Sheriff Steel.”

  “Well, Deputy Sheriff Steel, I don’t much care for your methods. I didn’t do jack. I didn’t kill anyone. Maybe I fucked a few girls, but I’m eighteen years old and when I last looked, that wasn’t a crime. Turn me loose.”

  “Were the girls you had sex with eighteen also?”

  “How would I know?”

  “I’d have thought their age would have been your primary concern.”

  “For what reason?”

  “So you’d be clear about the difference between consensual sex and illegal sex with a minor.”

  He didn’t say anything, although a perturbed look did manage to cross his face.

  “Have you anything else to say?”

  Apparently, he didn’t, as he sat silently.

  “Then, thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Henderson,” I said. “Upon your return to your cell, you will officially be placed under arrest and your rights read to you. Just FYI, you’ll be charged with unlawful sex with a minor and suspicion of murder. Congratulations. You just turned an informal little chat into a capital offense charge. I guess Coach Maxwell was wrong.”

  He looked at me questioningly.

  “He said you were smart.”

  I nodded to Al Striar. We both stood. “See you at the arraignment.”

  We stepped out of the room. The guard asked if we wanted Henderson returned to his cell.

  “Not yet,” I said. “Let him stew in there for a while. Let me know when he starts calling for me.”

  “You think this bozo is going to call for you?” Striar asked.

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because once he processes what just went down, he’ll realize his options are limited.”

  It took about fifteen minutes before the guard stuck his head into my office. “You sure called that one right, Buddy.”

  I smiled. “I want to detain him for a while longer before I talk with him again. Are you able to turn up the heat in there?”

  “You mean with the thermostat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure.”

  “Do it. Turn it to high. Let me know when he breaks a sweat.”

  “Cool,” the guard said and left.

  Marsha Russo knocked as she entered the office. “You bleated?”

  She sat down across from me.

  “I want to know the ages of all the women’s swim team members.”

  “I have them on my computer. What do you want them for?”

  “This Henderson idiot may have just incriminated himself.”

  “How so?”

  “He bragged about having had sex at Henry Carson’s play parties.”

  Together we walked to her cubicle where she fired up her desktop. After several moments of clicking and scrolling, she called out, “Got it. Two are seniors, seven are juniors, and three are sophomores.”

  “Ages?”

  “Two are eighteen, six are seventeen, and the three youngest are sixteen.”

  “Can you print out a list of which is which?”

  She opened a different window and pressed the print button. The device on her counter whirred into life. She handed me the printouts. “How do you plan to identify which of the girls had sex with him?”

  “Tomfoolery.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  I opened the door to Ron Van Cleave’s cell and stepped inside. “I need you to verify Paul Henderson’s statement and then you’re free to go.”

  “What statement?”

  “He told us the names of three of the swim team girls he made out with at the play parties. He said you could confirm them.”

  “Why would he say that?”

  “Because he was very cooperative and, as a result, he’s already been released from custody. In fact, he’s waiting downstairs for you to join him.”

  “You mean he’s free?”

  “I do.”

  “What are the names he gave you?”

  I told him.

  He thought for several moments, then said, “Yeah. We both did it with those girls.”

  “Thank you, Ron,” I said. “Deputy Sheriff Striar will be along shortly with the release papers for you to sign. I appreciate your help.”

  I shook his hand and left.

  “The Katzenjammer Kids.”

  “Excuse me?” Marsha said.

  We were sitting in my office taking a breather. “An old-time comic strip that used to appear in the funny papers. About these two nutty teenaged boys who were constantly getting themselves into trouble. I discovered them at Comic-Con. They made me laugh.”

  “You sure are full of surprises, Buddy. I would never have figured you for a Comic-Con guy.”

  “Ask my old man. I have a huge comic book collection that he keeps for me at his house. Lately he’s taken to reading them himself. They make him laugh, too.”

  “The Katzenjammer Kids?”

  “Yeah. I’m glad something makes him laugh these days.”

  “Tough sledding?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” Marsha said.

  “Henderson and Van Cleave reminded me of them. Only dumber. And way more sinister. They gave up the names of the three sixteen-year-olds. I want to interview each of them.”

  “So you’re planning to seek indictments for Henderson and Van Cleave?”

  “And everyone else who broke the law.”

  “Do you have enough to warrant these indictments?”

  “Not yet. But I will.”

  “And the killer?”

  “I’m getting warmer.”

  “Try not to burn yourself,” she snickered.

  I was alone when I stepped into the conference room Paul Henderson had been moved to after the temperature in the first room topped out at ninety-four. He looked up at me.

  His clothing was drenched and his dark, wavy hair was flattened and stuck to his head.

  “Fuck you, dickwad,” Henderson said. “You and your steam room tactics. I want a lawyer.”

  “Steam room tactics? Whatever are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. I’m fucking drenched. Look at me. I want a lawyer.”

  “As soon as we officially arrest you.”

  “This is all a big turd ball.”

  “What is?”

  “You busting me like this. Sweating me. You got no right.”

  “Thank you so much for sharing your interpretation of the law.”

  “Up yours. Truth is everybody at them parties did it with everyone else and they all loved it. Them girls, they couldn’t get enough.”

  A sardonic smile appeared in the corne
rs of his mouth. “Maybe you busted me so you could get a shot at them girls yourself.”

  Unshackled, Henderson stood. “You know, there ain’t nothing on the planet sweeter than young pussy. Now that you know how available them swim team girls are, how juicy they are, I’ll bet you can’t get to them fast enough.”

  I stood and took a step in his direction. Maybe it was the grin. Maybe it was his foul language. Maybe it was that he was soaking wet. But whatever it was, it succeeded in raising my blood pressure. “Permit me a word of advice, will you, Paulie?”

  He stopped grinning and stared at me.

  “I always say forewarned is forearmed.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” His question was saturated with annoyance.

  “You know what scares the bejesus out of jailed sex-offenders?”

  He glared at me and said nothing.

  “Just for your information, the inmates of the California state penitentiaries don’t much cotton to sexual deviants. Never have. Never will. They’re not so highly regarded in prison societal circles.

  “So, in your best interest, when it comes time for your sentencing, you might want to have a word with your lawyer about the benefits of solitary confinement. See if maybe he or she can arrange it for you. It might just save your ass. Literally...if you get my drift.”

  He glared at me with venom in his eyes.

  I flashed him a venomous look of my own. “This isn’t going to end well for you, Paulie. I’m going to make certain of it.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “We may have something,” I said when Chuck Voight picked up my call.

  “Such as?”

  “Does the name Gustavo Noel mean anything to you?”

  “The movie guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about him?”

  “He has a son.”

  “Are you going to keep playing footsie here, Buddy, or is it your plan to sometime get to the point?”

  “Patience is a virtue, Chuckie. I thought I taught you that.”

  “You taught me how to count backward from five. Four. Three.”

  “Okay, okay. The aforementioned Mr. Noel has a son called Robaire.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is there any chance you might put two and two together, Chuck?”

  “Robaire Noel,” he murmured.

  Then, after a pause he exploded. “I get it, Buddy. Robber Xmas.”

  “Give that man a cigar.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “About the cigar?”

  “You know, Buddy, this shouldn’t be so hard.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We wait.”

  “For?”

  “Robaire’s return to L.A.”

  “You think he’s going to come back here?”

  “He’s seriously tethered.”

  “To?”

  “Papa Big Bucks. I say we keep an eye on his travels. Once he’s back, we surveil him until he decides to ply his trade again.”

  “What do you mean we?”

  “We’re talking A Tale of Two Cities here.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement and get back to you.”

  “You know something, Charles? After all these years, you’re still a grade A ball buster.”

  “Up from a grade C. Aren’t you proud of me?”

  Chapter Forty

  Janet Swift was the first of the three swim team girls I interviewed. Marsha Russo was with me. We conducted the interview in my office at the Sheriff’s station.

  At seventeen, she was a fully developed woman, slender and muscular, full-breasted, slim-hipped, a shorn brunette with lively blue eyes, a tiny upturned nose, and a small, pouty mouth.

  She had on a sleeveless, scoop-necked white t-shirt worn over gray capri athletic pants. She alternately put on and then kicked off a pair of Tom’s dark blue classic slip-ons. She was clearly nervous.

  “You understand why we asked to speak with you,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “You know you’ve been identified as having been a participant in Henry Carson’s play parties.”

  Again she nodded.

  “Have you anything to say about that?”

  She looked away and cleared her throat. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  “Not at all. This interview is a routine part of our ongoing investigation into Mr. Carson’s murder. You’re in no trouble whatsoever. But I am curious as to how you were recruited.”

  “Recruited?”

  “Asked to join.”

  She started to twirl the small thatch of hair that was threatening to cover the top of her left ear. “Coach Carson, he began paying a lot of attention to me.”

  “Attention?”

  “Yes. He would always come over and talk to me. He wanted to know all about me. Where I lived. What kind of music I liked. Who my friends were. Stuff like that.”

  “And?”

  “He kept telling me how good I was. What a good swimmer I was. How I had so much potential. He seemed to really care about me. No other adult had ever taken any interest in me before.”

  She sat silently for a while, still twirling and re-twirling her hair. “One afternoon, after practice, he offered to drive me home.”

  “And you accepted his offer.”

  “I did. He said he had to stop at his office to pick up something he’d forgotten. So I went with him.”

  “And what happened?”

  “He closed the door behind us and locked it. Then he moved close to me. He told me how beautiful I was. He said he was mesmerized by me.”

  “Mesmerized?”

  “His word.”

  “And?”

  “He touched me.”

  “Where did he touch you?”

  “At first he caressed my hair. Then he moved his hand down my back and rested it on my behind. He pulled me to him and began kissing my neck. No man had ever done that before. I mean, the guys, some of them would always try. But Coach Carson knew exactly what he was doing and it started to turn me on.”

  When I didn’t say anything, she continued, this time a little more self-assured. “He raised my shirt. I was wearing a tee, pretty much like the one I have on now. He reached behind me, unhooked my bra and slipped it off. Then he started touching my breasts and kissing my, you know, my nipples. Then he touched me down there.

  “He asked if I was a virgin and I told him yes. He thought about that for a while, then told me how much he wanted me but he didn’t want me to lose my virginity on a desk in some crummy office.

  “So he unzipped his pants and he took out his thing. He placed my hand on it. Then he told me to get on my knees and put it in my mouth. After he finished, he zipped back up and, as if nothing had happened, he drove me home.”

  “Then what?”

  “A couple of days later he asked me again if he could drive me home. I said I really didn’t need a ride, but he insisted. This time we stopped at the Sleep Easy highway motel. He parked in the back and took me to a room where we did it.”

  “You had intercourse?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did you feel about it?”

  “Weird, I suppose. I had always thought I’d do it for the first time with a guy I was in love with. But Coach Carson, he was real knowledgeable. Very gentle. I really wanted to do it. And when we did, he made sure I was enjoying it. Even when it hurt.”

  “Did it occur to you that what he was doing was against the law?”

  “No. You see, I really liked it. It felt good. He took his time and he taught me everything. He wore a rubber so I wouldn’t get, you know, pregnant. I thought it wasn’t such a bad way to learn about sex.”

  “And you never
told anyone.”

  “Why would I? You have to understand how exciting it was for me. I loved him. I thought he loved me. It was only later I came to hate him.”

  “Because?”

  “The parties. Everyone was doing it with everyone else. Even with boys they didn’t like. The football guys were the worst. They’d pick a girl and then both of them would do it to her. Whether she wanted them to or not.”

  “Were you one of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone about it?”

  “I got scared. Paulie told me I was sworn to secrecy and that I’d be taken care of if I ever told.”

  “Taken care of?”

  “His term for hurting me.”

  “And Coach Carson?”

  “He turned out to be a different person from the guy I thought I loved. Yeah, he did it with me. But he also did it with everyone. Sometimes two or three at a time. It turned into a nightmare.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “No. But I wish it was me. I wish I had killed him.”

  “Somebody did.”

  “Thank God,” she said.

  The other two seventeen-year-olds, Jessie O’Hara and Marjorie Battles, had similar stories. Whatever mystique he possessed, it enabled Henry Carson to exercise a Svengali-like influence over any number of young women, all of whom willingly succumbed to his sexual advances.

  “It’s time,” I said to Marsha Russo.

  “Let me guess,” she said. “The D.A.?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Proof?”

  “In the numbers. It’s time to escalate this thing. Make a few arrests and see where they lead.”

  “Indictments?”

  “I don’t know, Marsha. Yes, laws were broken, but apart from the deceased, the lawbreakers were high school kids. Kids who had been unduly influenced by a sexual megalomaniac who opened a forbidden door and personally ushered them through it.”

  “A predator who somebody murdered.”

  “I still can’t figure it out. With luck somewhere, someplace, I’ll stumble upon a clue.”

  “A clue would be good,” Marsha said.