“When I got there to see him he was curled up on the floor, rocking back and forth, crying for his mother, saying, ‘I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it,’ over and over again. I just watched him through the window of his cell. When I went in he didn’t even know I was in the room. Nothing changed. I told him who I was. Nothing. No new evidence, no claims that someone else did it or he was framed. He didn’t ask me to represent him. Just rocking and crying.”
“Did he know you were coming?”
“No. It was on the spur of the moment. The prison doctor had called his attorney, who called us. Mr. Talaverde asked me to go up right away. I didn’t tell the doctor I was coming, neither did Mr. Talaverde. We didn’t even agree to look into it, so his attorney couldn’t have told him anything. I checked with the doctor. Weems hadn’t gotten back to him.”
“All right. Leave me the file. I’ll read it tonight and call you tomorrow.” She was right, I didn’t have anything more important to do.
“Here’s my home number,” she said as she wrote on the back of a business card. “My son’s been sick. I may not be in the office tomorrow.” She slid the card over to me. I put it in the file.
I finished my workout, showered, changed, made a pitcher of gin and tonic, and set it on the patio table next to the file. I put a fresh, clean legal pad and pen on the other side. I poured a drink, sat down, and opened the Earl Munsey file.
Earl Munsey had been nineteen when he was arrested for the murders of Joleen Pennybacker, Martha Dombrowski, and Eleanor Gelman. Pennybacker was found in a model home by a real-estate agent, Dombrowski in an empty house by the residents when they returned from a trip, and Gelman in a rental condo, by the next occupants. At first the three women appeared to have been murdered where they were found, with the murder weapons at the scene: Pennybacker’s skull crushed by a blood-covered wooden stick; Dombrowski shot in the head by the .32 caliber gun found next to her body; and Gelman bludgeoned by the fifteen-pound dumbbell near her.
Medical examination revealed that these were postmortem wounds and that each woman had been strangled by a soft ligature, perhaps rubber tubing. They had all been sexually assaulted before death, with bruising of the genital area but no penetration. There were no hair samples or bodily fluids at the scene of the crime. In addition, each victim had been bled, probably by syringe, and splashes of their blood were found at the next crime scene. They had been murdered elsewhere and placed at the scenes.
I picked up the crime-scene psychological profile. The profiler had been Warren Schuster, trained at Quantico, now a consultant in private practice.
All three crime scenes had a number of similarities. The women were partially clothed and appeared to have been killed by surprise, in the middle of an activity: Pennybacker sitting in front of a makeup mirror; Dombrowski in the kitchen, in front of an open refrigerator; and Gelman in the foyer with money in her hand, perhaps making change for a delivery. The reality of the murders was quite the opposite. All three endured multiple, near-death strangulations along with repeated, unsuccessful attempts at penetration both anal and vaginal.
Schuster concluded that the crimes represented two levels of reality. One, the final scenes of partially clad women, surprised and quickly killed, was based on an actual event, probably from the killer’s adolescence. The killer had been, perhaps, a peeping Tom who had been caught by a woman, maybe even reported to the police, hence the undress, the surprise, their being in the middle of ordinary activities. The postmortem wounds were the revenge of the discovered voyeur for her reporting him to the authorities, or laughing at him when she discovered him. The actual murders were the enactments of his fantasies. What he wanted to do to the women as he watched them. What he hadn’t done the first time.
Schuster suggested they look for a white male, early twenties, with a history of sexual offenses such as obscene phone calls, exposing himself, peeping into houses. He would have an extensive collection of pornography, probably emphasizing sadomasochistic themes, and have at least one camera with telephoto lenses. I’d have said the same thing.
The police put that together with the commonalities of the locations and began to look at deliverymen, cable installers, cleaning services, utility repairmen, mailmen. They were linking the profile to those who had the opportunity to get into the locations with the bodies. They also videotaped the crowds that showed up at each crime scene.
There at the intersection of history, opportunity, and obsession stood Earl Munsey, a vocational-school work-study employee of Beauty Kleen Restorations, Inc., a cleaning service with contracts that included all three locations. At fifteen, Earl had been arrested on a charge that he had spied on a neighbor going from her bedroom to her shower. That charge brought forth three other complainants. He was convicted and given a suspended sentence and placed in a residential facility for a year. He continued with outpatient counseling and community-service hours cleaning the bathrooms at the city park. That led to his employment with Beauty Kleen. A search warrant of his parents’ home turned up dozens of bondage magazines and videos, but no cameras. He also had a file about all the crimes sealed in a plastic bag and suspended from the floor vent in his bedroom into the ductwork. Earl had keys to all the locations, and although he was not assigned to the crews that were cleaning them, he could have easily gained access with the bodies. He was in the videotapes of the crowds at all three crime scenes. The neighbors all described Earl as a “strange duck,” a “lurker,” not a stalker, but always in the background, watching women, then scurrying off when their eyes met his.
I flipped over to the counseling notes from the residential facility. Psychological testing showed that Earl had an IQ of 82, was dyslexic, learning disabled by a sequential processing disorder, and attention deficit disordered. He had poor impulse controls, was often flooded by his feelings, used fantasy to excess to relieve chronic feelings of depression and emptiness. He was passive, easily suggestible, quite concrete in his thinking and rigid in his judgments. The therapist noted that Earl was unable to articulate why he had been watching the women and denied doing it even though there had been numerous witnesses. Therapy was eventually terminated as unproductive, and he was recommended for a job that was structured and did not involve contact with the public. That was the last anyone heard of Earl Munsey for three years.
The police had all they needed for an arrest. Earl was Mirandized and waived having an attorney present. Prosecutors would later argue that his psychological evaluation was not known to them at the time and that the standard error of the measure of an IQ of 82 could place it in the average range and his consent should have been considered competent. He was questioned by Detectives Ermentraut and Bigelow for almost forty-eight straight hours. At the end of which Earl Munsey signed a confession to the three murders.
I read the confession. There was no mention of how Earl Munsey lured the women into his van, which was presumed to be where the killings took place, or managed to keep from leaving a single piece of forensic evidence tying him to the crime. Earl claimed to have been in a fog and that it “wasn’t him” who had picked up the women. The murders, however, were described in gruesome detail.
The prosecution charged Earl with capital murder while committing felony sexual assault, attempted rape and sodomy, and asked for the death penalty. Without too much protest from Otis Weems, they got it.
Clipped to the back of the file was a bag of photographs from the crime scenes. I looked at the backs and arranged them in order. There was no identification of who took the photos, Ermentraut or Bigelow.
First was Joleen Pennybacker on the floor in front of a makeup mirror. Perfumes and potpourri were spilled on the floor. She was nude except for a pair of fur wraps around her neck. Next to her was a bloody wooden stick matted with her hair and brains.
Martha Dombrowski lay on the kitchen floor clad only in a college T-shirt. Food from the open refrigerator lay around her, a can, ground meat, donuts, and a .32-caliber pistol that had left her wi
th a small round hole in the middle of her forehead.
Eleanor Gelman was in the entrance foyer, also clad only in a college T-shirt. She had a twenty-dollar bill in her right hand, and there were some coins around her left hand. Next to her was a bloody, crusted dumbbell with five-pound plates.
I closed the file. Monica Chao had things to work with, especially the confession, but I didn’t see how I could help her. The profile and crime-scene analysis made sense to me. I could see Earl Munsey doing this crime. Maybe the confession was coerced and there were gaps in it. Maybe they shouldn’t have convicted him. Maybe she could parlay that into a new trial. That didn’t mean he didn’t do it. Not in the post-O.J. world.
I called Monica Chao and told her I had no ideas and that I would return the file to her. She asked if I could come by tonight. She had some more information that she had received by court order and she didn’t want to waste time. I got directions to her place and drove over.
She opened the door and motioned me inside. Monica wore running shoes, jean skirt, and a cream-colored blouse knotted at the midriff. Her hair was pulled back into a glossy ponytail. A young boy, perhaps five, stood in the center of the living room.
“This is my son, Justin. Justin, say hello to Dr. Triplett.” Justin approached with his hand out but a somber look on his face. We shook hands and he turned back to his game on the floor.
“Listen, I just wanted to drop this off. I’ll let you get back to whatever …”
She ushered me into the kitchen. “Justin’s upset right now. His father and I separated a couple of months ago. He keeps hoping we’ll get back together again. Whenever somebody comes over, he’s hoping it’s his dad. When it’s not, he’s disappointed.”
“Listen, I don’t have anything to tell you. Not from a psychological point of view. You have the confession to work with …”
“No, I don’t. Weems argued that on the first appeal. That and the consent. He lost. I don’t have anything. Before you give up on this, look at what I got today at the office. It’s the photos from Ermentraut and Bigelow. Along with their notes. The photos you saw were from the first officers on the scene, the patrolmen.”
“Okay, I’ll look at them,” I said resentfully, ready to be out from under one of her rocks. “How late are you going to be up tonight? I’ll drop them back when I’m done.”
“You can do it here. I’ve got an office set up next to the living room. Justin and I were about to eat. Why don’t you look at the stuff, stay for dinner, and tell me what you think. I’m making hot-and-sour soup and Dan Dan noodles, it’s Justin’s favorite.”
“What’s Dan Dan noodles?”
“It’s a spicy chili peanut sauce over noodles. Very good.”
“Okay. Where are the photos?” The sooner I started, the sooner I was done.
“In my office, on the desk. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to eat.” I walked out of the kitchen and across the living room. Justin was on his elbows and knees, staring down at a board on the floor before him. His chin rested in the cup of his palms.
I turned into the first door on the left, sat down at Monica’s desk, and put the file next to her printer. I picked up the photographs. They were larger than the ones the patrolmen had taken. I propped them up side by side in front of the computer screen. I flipped up Ermentraut’s notebook and read his notes.
Joleen Pennybacker: four bloodstains on floor; furs not part of house decor; potpourri?: lab says it’s dried thyme leaves; perfumes: Escada and Opium, from the house; wooden stick: solid maple—look at local cabinetmakers, furniture repair shops.
I looked at Joleen Pennybacker: young, slim, ghostly pale in the harsh flashlight. The pool of blood under her head black, not red. Lying on her back, eyes wide, hands up, fingers spread as if startled by someone standing in front of her. Had she been sitting? Why no chair? The two furs draped over her shoulder and around her neck. Trying them on before she got dressed? A gift? The sensuous feel of fur on skin? The potpourri and perfume spilled on the floor. As if she’d pulled them over in a struggle or standing up to flee. Someone she’d seen in the mirror. The bloody stick that stopped her.
I picked up Martha Dombrowski’s picture. I tilted it under the light then reached over and turned on Monica’s desk lamp. In the corners, four dark stains. Just like the first scene. Repetition becomes ritual. Another indicator that these tableaux had symbolic meaning to the killer. He was putting order on his chaos. Shaping it to give him release from his hungers. For the moment.
Martha was older, softer. Again on her back. Nude except for the T-shirt. A college. I brought the photo closer: University of California. She, too, had her hands up as if startled and a pool of black blood under her head. There was food strewn around her and the refrigerator door was open. The dropped gun. She hears someone, has food in her hands, a midnight snack perhaps, turns, sees the killer. Only he is not a killer yet. She sees him watching her. She’s going to report him, like the first one did. He can’t let that happen. He shoots her. He drops the gun and runs. Ritual reenactments of his trauma, his shame, only he’s rewritten the end. They don’t tell, they die. He escapes to watch them again. Better yet, he does what he only dreamed of the first time. But he can’t.
Even with them subdued, restrained, he can’t get it up, can’t put it in. A level of inhibition even this degree of control and power can’t conquer. Twisted religious upbringing? What did Munsey’s parents do to him?
Thank God they caught this guy. He’d have kept doing this until he was able to penetrate his victims. And then he’d have kept on anyway, just hyphenating his career: serial killer-rapist.
I looked at the notes. Food: can of baked beans, open with lid; package of ground meat; box of donuts. The food belonged to the owners of the house. T-shirt: University of California. Neither the victim nor the residents attended the school. Boyfriend? Killer? Blood not the victim’s. Match for #1. The gun was a .32-caliber H & R. No serial number. A later note said ballistics couldn’t match it with any other killings and they hadn’t been able to trace its owner.
The last picture was Eleanor Gelman. Again the four bloodstains. Again the body nude except for a college T-shirt. This time it’s the University of Richmond. Was Munsey’s first victim, the one who reported him, a college student? She’s on her back in the foyer. This time her hands have money in them. Coins all around the left one, dropped when she’s startled, a twenty in her right. For whom? Where’s her purse? I scanned the corners of the photo to see if it was on the floor or hanging from a doorknob. Why get it out to give to someone? She’s only half dressed. So many questions but the answer is always the same—silence. Her head sits in a pool of blood. Satan’s halo, viscous, sickly sweet, the light shining off bits of bone and brain. I looked at the dumbbell. There was a difference with this one. Her ankles were tied. With what?
I looked at Ermentraut’s notes. Bloodstains not the victim’s. Same as victim #2. T-shirt—victim did not go to University of Richmond. Her son? Money: 7 cents—all pennies. Ankles: rubber tubing. Chemistry supplies? M.E. says consistent with ligatures on all three victims.
I stared at all three pictures. A triptych from Earl Munsey’s unconscious. The same scene over and over again, unchanging forever. That’s one definition of hell.
“Are you staying for dinner?”
I looked down. Justin stood there just as somber as before. Dark eyes peering up from under his bowl-cut black hair.
“I was going to. Your mom offered since I’m helping her with her work. Is that okay with you?”
Justin put his hand on my arm. “Do you know my dad?”
“No, I don’t,” I said gently.
“Oh.” He turned away, then back. “Can you play with me? Just until Mom calls me to eat?”
I looked at the photos. Nothing there. I might as well play with the little guy. His dad would if he were here.
“Sure. Just until your mom calls.”
I pushed away from the console and followe
d him into the living room. A sliding-glass door and surrounding windows let plenty of light into the room and it bounced off the dark parquet floor. A large-screen TV sat in the center of the far wall surrounded by a built-in bookcase. I scanned the books: cookbooks, exercise books, books on divorce and child-rearing, romances, mysteries, arts and crafts, everything but law books. A low, cream-colored leather sofa and chair set encircled a wood and glass coffee table. A free-form cypress base with bronze claws gripping a palette-shaped glass top.
Justin sat down in between the table and the sofa and picked up a plastic frame. I thought about squeezing in next to him but chose an adjoining side of the table. His mother poked her head around the corner.
“We’ll eat in just a couple of minutes.” Then she lifted her head up towards me.
“Anything?”
“Where do you stand on feeding the messenger?”
“We feed them in these parts. Good news or bad.”
“I still don’t see anything.”
“Okay.”
Justin scooted over towards me and handed me the frame. It was covered with numbered plastic shingles.
“How do you play, Justin?”
“It’s a memory game. You have to remember where the matching pictures are. When they match you take them off the board.”
“Show me. We’ll do this one for practice. It won’t count, okay?”
“Okay. See, here is a pony, and this one is a pony. So I take them off.” He lifted two numbered shingles, revealing the ponies. Off they came, revealing another layer underneath.
“What’s this, Justin?” I asked, noticing that he was sitting right up next to my leg and starting to list to starboard. I hoped that he wouldn’t climb into my lap, so I called out for help.
“How’s dinner coming?”
“Couple more minutes, that’s all.” And so the Titanic was lost.
“This is the next part,” he said, now looking up at me from the space between the board and my chest.
Mary, Mary, Shut the Door Page 18
