She wondered why he wasn’t on TV anymore, and why he was here, like this. She hadn’t been to his play at the Windmill, but she bet it was terrific.
“You seem like a good person, Julie,” Bob said. And there was something in his eyes and it made Julie feel funny, even sad, and it must’ve been the Scotch, which sometimes brought her down.
“I am,” Julie said, as Brenda pulled the stockings from her feet. “I am a good person.”
“Bob,” Brenda asked, “would you like to see how good she is? Would you like to watch me? I can make her beautiful.” Brenda wrapped her arms around Julie’s stomach and nuzzled her neck.
“She’s already beautiful,” Bob said.
“I can make her more.”
“You can try.”
In the living room, when it was going down, Julie couldn’t stop looking around, couldn’t stop thinking, This is happening, wow, isn’t this a trip, Colonel Hogan himself, and she looked at the camera on its big tripod and the stack of cassettes in the corner, and she saw a leather jacket on the floor in the corner and she wondered if that was the jacket he wore on the show and wouldn’t she like to get into that, and her eyes caught her reflection on the TV screen and there she was and she saw herself and Bob Crane and she saw her eyes and they were startled. And she saw Brenda and Brenda was looking too. Brenda was staring and her dark eyes looked so big Julie thought they might swallow the screen.
They ended up in the bedroom. Bob walked behind her, putting his hand in her hair. They had sex on the bed. The buzzing in Julie’s ears was making her head hurt and the Scotch was making her dizzy. It seemed liked everything in the apartment was plugged in and running.
The room was dark and at one point it was just her and Bob and the light from the living room flashed on his face, above her. And it was that face, and she thought, it’s like getting it on with the slick cover of a TV Guid e. But it wasn’t really like that. It wasn’t like that and she couldn’t name it, but looking in his eyes, it was doing things to her. It felt like something had passed over between them. She was seeing something and it made her so sad, all of a sudden. She felt her face wet and she thought, I’m crying. I’m crying. Why am I crying?
Later she couldn’t be sure if it had happened.
After, she and Brenda went back into the living room. Brenda put her dress on and helped Julie zip her uniform back up.
They were giggling at first, and talking. It was like a slumber party, curled upon the sofa.
“I’m getting back into music,” Brenda was saying. “Steve bought me a keyboard. Maybe Bob can help me. He used to be a big deejay in L.A. He knows people in the biz.”
“Maybe,” Julie said, and she felt a little sick. She thought she should lie down.
She leaned into the corner of the sofa and Brenda kept talking, on and on, and Julie fell asleep.
“Do you hear that?”
Julie’s eyes flew open and Brenda’s face was big in front of hers, her hand grabbing Julie’s wrist.
“What?” Julie said, trying to prop herself up. “What?”
“Do you hear voices?” Brenda whispered, loudly.
Julie couldn’t hear anything.
“Someone’s trying to get into the apartment,” she said, and they both looked over at the front door. “They’re trying to break in.”
“No,” Julie said. “You had a bad dream.”
“I’m worried about my house.” Brenda jumped to her feet. “I need to get home.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Just relax, Brenda.”
Brenda’s body was shaking and Julie stood too, head groggy, and tried to speak slowly and firmly, like you’re supposed to do when someone’s having a bad reaction to dope.
“Brenda, you’re fine. You’re fine.”
“It’s like the dream,” she said, her voice pitching up and down. “It’s like the dream.”
“See? You were just having a bad dream. Don’t be scared, Brenda.” Julie put her hand to her own head, fighting off the dizziness. That buzzing noise was back. It had been gone while she slept and now it was back and it seemed louder.
“I’m sensitive that way,” Brenda said, gravely. “When the moon is a certain way, I can get these vibrations. It’s like a whisper. When I met Bob, I had this picture. It came to me. I blacked out for a second and it was like I could see something was in his way. It was a darkness, on his bed. A darkness there on the bed with him.”
“Brenda …” Julie said, starting to feel something prickly in the back of her head, like touching a hot wire.
“And when I got here, it was like I was hearing an atmospheric disturbance in the place.”
“No. No,” Julie said, but her voice quavered. “It’s the air conditioner. It’s the equipment.
Brenda, you—”
“And now I can see it. I can see it on the wall like a shadow.” She pointed at the wall by the front door.
Julie couldn’t see anything, or thought she couldn’t. There were lots of shadows, more than she could count. The prickling in her temples was worse and worse and she felt so hot, even with the air blasting behind her.
“I know you see it,” Brenda said. Then her voice rushed up fast and she pointed at the wall. “It’s behind you, Julie. It’s behind you!”
Julie felt her heart rush up her chest and she turned around so fast she nearly fell. The minute she did, she felt silly. “Brenda,” she started, but she couldn’t make her voice calm. “Did you drop a tab? Did you drop a tab?”
“You know I don’t use that. I don’t use anything,” Brenda replied, and her eyes were so wide and she kept putting her hand to her forehead and she started pacing back and forth in front of Julie.
“There’s nothing there, Brenda. Are we … are we still sleeping?” She knew it didn’t make sense but she felt it, she felt it looking all around the room, which was like the TV screen, everything either black or white, black cassettes and equipment and the tripod and shadows and white walls and Brenda, who was standing stock-still in front of the coffee table.
Suddenly, Brenda’s hand flew to her mouth. “The thing in the corner,” she said. “The thing in the corner.”
“What thing? What thing?”
“It sees you, Julie.”
And Julie felt her heart thundering and she wanted Brenda to stop and she wanted to leave. She wanted to leave but couldn’t imagine how to make her body move to the door.
“Stop it, Brenda,” she said, her voice jangling. She wondered how Bob did not wake up.
“It’s here. It’s here. Silent. Waiting. Voices, or a rush. Julie, don’t let it see you. Don’t let it …”
Julie felt her hands dart out and cover her ears. There was the buzzing and behind the buzzing it was like there were whispers and in the whispers was Brenda’s voice, urgent and throbbing, beating like a drum. “Julie, Julie, watch out. Watch out.”
She felt her arms fling out and shove Brenda, who staggered backward and curled into herself, and Julie ran to the bedroom door and saw Bob was sleeping still and the sounds of his breathing were so peaceful. But there was Brenda behind her.
An awful feeling came to her as she watched Bob. She felt like this was something Brenda was doing to Bob. She felt like Brenda might be the dark thing.
“Don’t, Julie,” Brenda was whispering. “Don’t go in. You’ll bring it in there.”
Julie backed up and turned around and her hand swung out and cracked against Brenda’s face and Brenda’s eyes stuttered shut and open and something broke and Brenda paused and Julie stood still, her hand shaking, and the pause stretched and the hurtling look in Brenda’s eyes was gone.
“Julie,” Brenda said. And she didn’t say anything else. There was a coolness in her face, a sudden calm. And there was a knowingness to it, like she could look at Julie and see everything.
“I have to go,” Julie said. “I have to go home now. Don’t I. I have to go home now.”
Brenda stared at her and nodded.
&nb
sp; “Do you want to come with me, Brenda? I think you should come with me.”
But Brenda gave a half-smile and turned and walked toward the bedroom. She could see the flash of white sheets as Brenda slipped into bed beside Bob, who let out a forlorn sigh.
Julie grabbed her handbag and walked over, stopping at the bedroom door. “It wasn’t me, Brenda.” She wasn’t even sure what she meant. “I didn’t bring it …” Her voice trailed off.
Brenda, hair falling over her face, lying there, looked at her but didn’t say anything.
It was two weeks later, the day after the murder, when she called the police. Everyone in town was talking about it. Everyone had seen Bob, at all his places. Bob and his friend John, the one the police knew did it. Everyone was getting called in or getting visits. Carl told her to make the call or it could be worse. This was right before Carl started up with the hostess at Bobbie McGee’s and before she got into that new scene, the crowd that hung out at that dance place in Phoenix. The detectives came by and asked a lot of questions. They showed her pictures and it was terrible seeing them. Why do you have to show me these? she said, and seeing him lying there, nearly as she’d left him the week before, lying on his bed, eyes closed, but with that dark mass streaking from him, across the sheets.
For weeks and weeks she replayed it all in her head. It usually started with a dream, and the dream was always the same and it always began with her walking toward him in the Registry lounge, and that look in his eyes, like he was expecting her.
It wasn’t long after that she drove by Brenda’s place and saw new people living there. She asked around at the Safari, the Camelback, Chez Nous, Bogart’s, the modeling agency in Phoenix. One night, a regular at the Registry told her that she’d heard Brenda went to Mexico to make a film and was killed in the desert.
It was his face she remembered, long after. Brenda had said it was so blank, vacant, or transparent, like glass, knocking light and shadows off everyone. Or maybe it was a mirror. But that wasn’t how it was to her. In her head now, he was right before her, his eyes filled with things, cluttered with them, with desperation and darkness and loss and, now she saw it, surrender. It was as if he was waiting for it, for her. She knew that somehow he was.
Author’s note: This story is a fictionalized account of a real-life incident, as reported in Robert Graysmith’s Auto Focus: The Murder of Bob Crane (Berkley, 2002).
PART IV
THE CRY OF THE CITY
DEAD BY CHRISTMAS
BY DAVID CORBETT
Tempe
I’ll tell you what ruined my marriage, and it wasn’t gambling or drink or chasing skirt. Our son, Donny, was walking home from a friend’s house when a LeSabre blew the stop sign, ran the poor kid down in the street and dragged him twenty yards, then fled the scene.
Seven years old, Donny was. And he fought, or his body fought, half the night, until the ER surgeon came out with that look on his face, to talk with Barb and me.
All I remember of the next two weeks is I went on a mission—horning my way into the loop as every department in the valley tracked down the driver, even tagging along when the arrest came down in Apache Junction. They put two men on me, to make sure I didn’t take my shot as they dragged the guy out. His name was Phil Packer, an insurance adjustor with a DWI sheet ten years long, bench warrants in four counties—he’d been hiding in his girlfriend’s trailer.
After that, every time Packer shuffled into court from lockup for a hearing, I was right there, front row, eye-fucking him and his wash’n’wear lawyer. None of which made a difference, of course, nor was it anything close to what Barb or our baby girl needed from me. That wasn’t part of the mission.
My wife called me out on all that one night—it was late, she’d had a few, her face streaked with mascara from sitting in the dark with a bottomless cocktail and her son’s ghost. Melodie, the baby, lay asleep in her room. I’d been out in the car, driving around, something I did a lot.
Seeing me there, Barb stood up and tottered closer, into the light. Her eyes were puffy and raw. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” She had that tone.
I said, “I had to finish up some work.”
“No. I called. You left hours ago.”
I had a lie ready. “A CI called, he wanted to meet. They didn’t tell you?”
She laughed acidly, inches from my face now. “You’re such a coward.”
Looking back, I think of the things I might’ve done, might’ve said, but all I could come up with in the moment was, “How many have you had?”
“Not nearly enough.” She shoved the glass into my hand, a dare. “You know, Nick, disappearing isn’t the same as dying.”
I remember feeling cold all over. “You’re not talking sense.”
“You’re jealous of Donny.” Her eyes, glistening in the light, turned hard. “Somehow you think staying away is going to make me miss you. The way I miss him. Christ. Are you honestly that pathetic?”
Some scientist should measure the speed at which shame turns into hate. I’ll never forget that sound, never forget the feel of the glass shattering in my hand or the sight of her crumbling in front of me, no matter how much I try. There’s some things “sorry” won’t cure, no matter how many times you say the word, or even how much you mean it.
It’s said that only one in five marriages survives the death of a child, and maybe I should take comfort in the numbers. Regardless, it was my divorce that turned me into a workhorse, not the other way around.
This was the early ’90s and I’d rotated into robbery, great place to get lost, the numbing paperwork, sixteen hour days if you want them. There were four of us from different departments—Phoenix, Tempe, Scottsdale, Mesa—meeting once a week to share intel. We’d had twenty restaurant take-downs around the valley the previous six months, all the same guy. He came in at closing, when the back door was propped open by the kitchen crew—that’s when they dragged the rubber mats out to the parking lot for the nightly hose-down. Meanwhile, inside, the money was getting counted and bagged for deposit.
The robber wore dark coveralls, gloves, a ski mask, and he always slipped in and out within minutes, which meant he knew the business. Brandishing a snubnose, he’d prone out the manager, tie him up with plastic cuffs, the kind they use for riot control, then snatch the night deposit. Right before leaving, he’d grab the manager’s wallet, dig out the driver’s license. “You’re gonna say some wetback did this,” he’d whisper. “I know your name. I know where you live.” Even after we found out the guy was white, we still had vics swearing to our faces he was Mexican.
Finally, luck stepped in, as it does more times than most cops care to admit.
Two cars responded to a domestic here in Tempe—how’s that for poetic? One cop grabbed the husband, the other took the wife, separated them, different rooms. The wife—eye swollen shut, cracked lip—she bawls to the cop there with her, “You know all the restaurant jobs around here the past few months? That asshole in the next room, he’s the one you’re after.”
The woman wouldn’t swear out a statement, though, so the uniform tracks me down in robbery at the end of his shift to give me a verbal. I’m Tempe’s case agent on the restaurant spree. You can imagine, he lays out the scenario, I’m cringing a little. Everybody on the force knew my business. Even so, I should’ve been thrilled, right? Finally, a suspect.
The guy was Mike Gallardi, his wife’s name was Rhonda. Together, they ran a hole-in-the-wall called Mike’s Place out on Baseline Road in South Phoenix. You could get a coronary just reading the menu but the place was clean, with a small counter and maybe a half dozen booths.
Here’s the thing: They catered to cops. You walked in, one whole wall was dedicated to fallen officers. Flash a badge, your kids got free sodas with their meals. Come in on duty and no one’s around? Boom, wink, you ate free.
I’d been at their place just once, a couple years before, taken there by a buddy of mine in traffic division. Rhonda worked the register
and counter, a shy, chesty, bleached-out woman in her thirties. Mike was the talker and he came out from behind the grill to toady up, all shucks and gee-whiz.
How to say this—I don’t trust people who backslap cops. They always want something. Not that I made much headway on that point when I broke my news to the robbery roundtable.
“No way Mike’s the suspect.” This from Cavanaugh, the detective from Phoenix. “I can name fifty guys right now, this minute, who’ll vouch for him.”
“His own old lady handed him up.”
“After he batted her around, yeah. Go back, now that she’s cooled off. I’ll bet she admits it’s crap.”
He had a point, of course, domestics being what they are. But something about the way he said it made me think what he meant was: What would your wife say about you, Boghossian, if we gave her the chance?
Thankfully, the four commanders overseeing the roundtable agreed with me and ordered surveillance. The teams worked in rotation, each department on for three days then making way for the next detail. But Mike was smart. He made our guys early and burned them in heat runs, crazy Ivans, every kind of stunt you can imagine to flush them out. Once he just stopped in traffic, walked back to the unmarked car, and said, “Why are you following me? I haven’t done anything.”
I could just picture him, over one of those free burgers or shrimp baskets he doled out, pumping guys for information on tail jobs: C’mon, tell me, I’m just so doggone curious. And cops—hated by damn near everybody, grateful for someone who actually gives a rat’s ass—I’ll bet they couldn’t tell him their stories fast enough.
It got to me, sure. We were the ones who’d trained this guy—inadvertently, granted, but he was smarter than he should’ve been because of us. He was pulling out our wallets, whispering our names and addresses. And yeah, like everybody else he’d chumped, I felt ashamed.
Two weeks later, I got a call from surveillance: “Boghossian, get this. Gallardi and his wife locked up their place as usual but didn’t head home. They checked into a hotel on the frontage road along I-10.”
Phoenix Noir Page 19
