by Lee Goldberg
Joanna Pate, the former nursing student, babysitter, and teen call girl.
Steve had made only a cursory effort to find her before. Now he would have to roll up his sleeves and get his hands dirty. He unearthed files from Community General's nursing school to locate her parents, but they'd both died years ago. A little more digging revealed that Joanna was an only child, so he couldn't locate her through her siblings either. She must have lied when she told Mark she was the oldest of three children and therefore an experienced babysitter.
On the assumption that she probably got married, Steve used LAPD's computers to access wedding license databases throughout California from 1962 to 1972, the odds being that she was most likely to have wed while still in her twenties.
When he found no mention of her in the California databases, he widened his search to marriage licenses granted in other states, starting with Nevada, and he immediately scored a hit.
Joanna Pate had married Nelson Lenhoff on June 17, 1963, at a drive-through chapel on the Las Vegas strip.
On a hunch, Steve checked the roster of doctors on the Community General staff in 1962 and found a Dr. Nelson Lenhoff in the pediatrics department.
Some more pounding on the computer keys revealed that Dr. Lenhoff had a private practice in Pasadena until 1981, when he divorced his wife and moved to Florida.
By the time Steve came up with Joanna Lenhoff's home address, which was somewhere on the San Fernando Valley side of Coldwater Canyon, his neck and shoulders were sore and his eyes were stinging from the hours spent hunched over the computer. But he felt a sense of satisfaction that was stronger than his discomfort. He liked the methodical process of basic detective work, especially when it paid off.
Steve got up, stretched, took out the tiny bottle of Advil in his desk drawer and dry-swallowed a couple of tablets. He grabbed his car keys and decided to drive out to see Joanna Lenhoff without calling her first. In his experience, it was always better to catch people off guard and unprepared, especially when he expected them to lie.
* * *
Joanna Lenhoff lived in a small, unassuming Craftsman nestled in the curve of a narrow side street that wound from Coldwater Canyon to a dead end at the base of the Hollywood Hills. Sandbag dams, three or four bags long and two bags high, were laid at angles from the curb, creating steps that were intended to slow the flow of runoff down the street.
But the mud and water still clogged the gutters, one of which was right in front of Lenhoff's house, creating a deep mud puddle in the curve that submerged the sidewalks on both sides of the street.
Joanna's home wasn't in any danger of flooding. It was hunched up against the steep, craggy hillside and was surrounded by overgrown trees. A steep asphalt driveway led up to a detached garage, which was covered with dead leaves and bordered one end of her sliver of a backyard.
Steve parked in the driveway to avoid the mud and had to kick his driver's-side door open to keep it from immediately closing back on him as he got out of the car. Rain blew inside the car, drenching the seats and dashboard, but there was no way to avoid it. He climbed out, letting gravity slam the door behind him, and walked up railroad-tie steps that led to her front porch.
He was hunched over against the rain, so he didn't notice the note thumbtacked to the front door until he reached the porch. The white paper was so bright against the dark door it appeared to be illuminated. The words on the printer paper were printed in bold black twenty-point type.
DO NOT ENTER. THIS IS A CRIME SCENE.
CALL THE POLICE IMMEDIATELY.
The note wasn't signed. It wasn't necessary. Steve knew who'd written it.
He called for backup and drew his gun, more out of protocol than necessity. Whoever left the note did it on his way out, not his way in. Even so, there was no harm in protecting himself.
Steve braced his back against the wall and eased the door open with his free hand. The smell of rotting flesh hit him immediately. He holstered his gun, certain now that he wouldn't need it. He dabbed some Vicks VapoRub under his nose to combat the stench, put on a pair of disposable gloves from the ever-present stash in his jacket pocket, and went inside.
The air was still and heavy. He could almost feel it seeping past him, freed by the open front door. The chill from outside made him realize how warm it was inside the house. The heater had been cranked up. He could hear the patter of rain and the scratching of windblown tree branches against the house, and his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, but otherwise the house was silent.
It was more than that. It was lifeless.
The shades were drawn and it was dark, a gloominess that was deepened by the black leather furniture, paneled walls, and hardwood floors. Framed family photos of all sizes were propped on every flat surface and covered the walls. Joanna was in nearly every one of them. She was shown alone, with her two children, with an older couple he assumed were her parents. There were no pictures of her ex-husband. When Joanna walked through the house, gazing at those pictures, it must have been like walking past a hundred mirrors, each reflecting her image back at her from a different time.
He walked into the kitchen and jerked back, startled, the breath catching in his throat.
Joanna Lenhoff was lying on her back on the center island, her head lolling over the edge of the counter, facing the doorway, her wide, dead eyes staring right at him.
By the time Mark Sloan arrived at the crime scene, it was nightfall and the tiny street was completely clogged with official vehicles, their flashing, twirling, multicolored bubble lights casting an eerie strobe over the neighborhood.
Because of the flooding in front of Joanna's house, most of the police vehicles were parked where the side street met busy Coldwater Canyon Boulevard, creating a bottleneck for local residents trying to get past the road block to their homes. The steady downpour turned what would have been an irritating inconvenience for drivers into a commuter's nightmare, causing a massive traffic jam on the boulevard in both directions, north into Studio City and south into Beverly Hills.
Mark left his car in a church parking lot and walked to the house, his long overcoat getting soaked by the rain and splashed with mud by every car that passed on Coldwater Canyon Boulevard.
The officer manning the roadblock waved him through and he wove through the parked cars to Joanna Lenhoff's house. Someone had constructed a crude bridge made of plywood and sandbags over the torrent of water to the front steps.
When Mark reached the covered porch, he took off his wet overcoat and muddy shoes so he wouldn't leave tracks all over the crime scene.
He found Steve in the living room, conferring with someone from the crime lab. They'd already spoken on the cell phone, but the connection was bad, so Mark didn't know entirely what to expect. All he knew was that Joanna was dead.
Mark's attention was immediately drawn to the photos of Joanna on the walls. He could see the young woman he knew in all of them, despite her age, the lines on her face, the family and friends around her. Nobody looking at those pictures could ever have imagined that the refined, conservatively dressed woman at the center of each one had ever been a prostitute. She'd aged very well, a sixty-year-old who easily looked ten years younger.
Steve held a sealed, transparent evidence bag out to his father. The note was inside. Mark didn't read the words on the paper as much he felt them, clutching his throat like cold fingers, the past reaching out from the grave to strangle him.
"This was on the door when I arrived," Steve said. "It was written on her home computer. The message is still on the screen. Was the note on Whittington's door ever made public?"
Mark nodded. "It was in all the press reports."
"She's in there." Steve cocked his head towards the kitchen. "I'll be right with you."
Mark entered the kitchen, where Dr. Amanda Bentley was standing with her back to him, inadvertently blocking his view of the body. But the large amount of dried blood splattered on the tile floor indicated he should brace him
self for the worst.
"How bad is it, Amanda?" Mark asked softly.
"Terrifying," Amanda said, stepping aside so Mark could see for himself. "Whoever did this knows how to use a knife."
Joanna Lenhoff was on her back on top of the center island.
On the cutting board, Mark thought.
She was naked from the waist up, her shirt and bra had been cut away, frayed halves of the clothing open like bloodstained wings on either side of her.
The killer had made a crude, Y-shaped incision with a kitchen knife, extending from each of her shoulders to her sternum and then down along the middle of her body to her waistline.
"He started my autopsy for me," Amanda said. "While she was still alive."
"Was she injected with succinylcholine?" Mark said, his voice hoarse.
"Probably." Amanda pointed out a tiny pinprick on Joanna's throat. "I'll let you know when I get the lab results."
There was a question Mark needed to ask, but he found it difficult, the words coming out slowly, barely audible. "Have you found anything inside of her?"
"Like another memory card?" Amanda asked. "Not yet, but that doesn't mean there isn't some nasty surprise waiting for me when I get her on my autopsy table."
"How long has she been dead?"
"A day," Amanda said. "Give or take a few hours."
Steve came in behind Mark. "She was posed for us. The killer wanted us to see her face when we came through the door."
"Brooke Haslett's murder was carefully staged for maximum dramatic effect, too," Amanda said. "The mermaid suit, the red hair, the location where the body was found."
"This killing is very different," Mark said, stepping out of the kitchen so he could think more clearly, undistracted by the horror of Joanna's body. Steve and Amanda followed him.
"Everything about Brooke's death was carefully planned long in advance," Mark said. "First, he had to find her, which couldn't have been easy. She was selected because of who she was and what she symbolized. He probably watched her for a long time, waiting for the perfect time and place to abduct her or lure her to him. He had the mermaid outfit and the memory card ready and waiting for when that right moment came. The victim, every detail of her death, the disposition of her corpse, and the discovery of her identity were all chosen to convey a specific message."
"I'm sure Joanna Lenhoff was chosen for the same reason," Amanda said. "She knew the victims in 1962, and she knew you."
"Ginny Haslett knew me, but whoever is behind this didn't kill her. He murdered her daughter instead," Mark said. "Brooke was the same age as the other victims. Why not kill Joanna's daughter instead?"
"How do we know he hasn't?" Amanda asked nervously.
"Her two children are safe," Steve said. "There are officers at her daughter's home in San Diego and campus police have located her son at Boston University. We'll be protecting them both until the killer is caught."
"With the exception of the syringe full of succinylcholine that the killer brought with him, it appears he used whatever was at hand to commit the murder," Mark said. "It suggests this murder wasn't as well thought out. It's missing the details that would give it symbolic significance beyond the murder itself."
"What about the note on the door?" Steve said. "It's a direct reminder of Whittington's staged suicide."
"The note was written here, on the home computer, almost as an afterthought. Why didn't he have her sign it first, to really evoke the past?" Mark said. "I don't think the killer decided to kill Joanna until shortly before he did it. At the moment, it suggests to me that Joanna was murdered for a different reason than Brooke Haslett was."
"You don't think she was killed to tell you something?" Steve said.
"I think she was killed so she wouldn't," Mark said.
"So what was the point of cutting her open like this?" Amanda said.
"Pleasure," Mark said. "I think he enjoys it."
"Just like whoever killed those nurses in 1962," Steve said. "He got off on their terror, knowing they were paralyzed, powerless to save themselves from certain death."
"We know who killed those nurses," Mark said.
"Do we?" Steve took a deep breath and considered his words carefully. "Are you sure Chet Arnold was the right man?"
"He told me he killed the girls," Mark said.
"Yes," Steve said, "but which ones?"
Mark stared at his son, the full significance of what he was saying sinking in.
"What if Harry Trumble was right?" Steve said. "What if there were two different killers? One who killed Sally Pruitt and Tess Vigland, and one who killed the others?"
"Someone who was never caught." Mark took a seat, his legs feeling weak.
"That would certainly explain why the murders of Sally Pruitt and Tess Vigland were so different from the others," Amanda said. "And how Brooke Haslett's murderer knew enough about the details behind the 'accidental' deaths of those other nursing students to suggest they were killed with succinylcholine."
"He knew it because he killed them, too," Steve said, looking now at his father.
It all made such perfect sense. In his youth and arrogance, Mark had missed the obvious clues.
He didn't solve all the murders in 1962. He solved two of them.
And by participating in the police cover-up, he saw to it that Whittington was blamed for all the killings, the case was closed, and nobody ever looked at the "accidental" deaths of those nurses again. Mark made it possible for a murderer to go free without any fear of ever being pursued or punished for his crimes.
Mark knew with heart-wrenching clarity that Steve's theory was correct. There were two killers. One was Chet Arnold and the other got away.
"It all makes sense, except for one thing," Mark said. "Why wait forty-three years to kill again?"
"Maybe he hasn't," Amanda said. "Maybe he just waited until now to tell you about it."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
When Steve came home at nine p.m., he found his father in front of the dry-erase board, studying the pictures, the clues, and relationships between them all.
"Come to any fresh conclusions?" Steve asked.
"Just that you're right," Mark said. "There were two killers. And if he's been killing all these years, we may never be able to prove it. We can't go back and double-check every accidental death of a young woman for the last four decades."
Mark thought back to Harry Trumble's last case, the capture of the Clown Killer. One reason he'd eluded capture for so long was because he'd gone overseas, exporting his gruesome brand of murder. What if this killer had done the same thing?
"He might even have been away for most of that time," Mark said.
"Or put away," Steve said. "He could have been in prison, serving a sentence for another crime. I'm checking recently paroled or released violent offenders who were originally incarcerated at least twenty or thirty years ago."
"It's a long shot," Mark said.
"Right now, I'm willing to explore any possibilities," Steve said.
Mark heated up some leftover spaghetti for Steve, who briefed his father on what he'd learned over the last few hours. Officers canvassed the neighborhood, but nobody reported seeing anything suspicious at Lenhoff's house during the last twenty-four hours—not that they would have noticed anyway. Most of the neighbors who drove past her house said their attention was on their driving, concentrating on not having an accident as they made the turn through the flooded curve in the street. There were no signs of forced entry in the house, leading Steve to believe the killer simply knocked on the front door and either was invited inside or pushed his way in. No fingerprints, tire tracks, shoe impressions, or other useful forensic evidence had been uncovered yet, and Steve was still waiting on Amanda's autopsy report.
Mark reciprocated by telling Steve everything he'd gleaned from his interviews with Alice Blevins and Bart Spicer. He also shared his theory that Whittington must have had a home bomb shelter of his own and that it might ha
ve been where the blackmail films were hidden.
"If that footage still exists," Steve said, "it could be the break we've been looking for."
"What makes you think the killer is on the film? And even if he is, how would we know? There are probably dozens of men on the film, many of whom it might be impossible to identify now."
"I'll worry about that once I've seen the film." Steve got up from the table and made two calls. The first was to a junior detective in homicide, asking him to wake up someone in the building department and find the original blueprints of Whittington's home and any improvements that might have been made to the property. His next call was to a judge to get the process moving on a search warrant so they could check out the house first thing in the morning.
When Steve hung up, he found Mark in front of the board again, looking at it as if it was the first time he'd seen it, tracing the lines between people, events, and objects with his finger.
Alistair Whittington was in deep financial trouble. To get himself out of it, and perhaps to satisfy his own prurient interests, he coerced nursing school students and applicants to work for him as hookers. The women met the men they would later seduce by first offering their services as babysitters.
Later, the women would bring the men to Whittington's house in the valley, where he secretly filmed their encounters as leverage for blackmail.
Chet Arnold was one of those men, and rather than pay blackmail, he killed the women he slept with, framed Whittington for the crime, and then murdered Whittington, making it look like suicide.
Mark saw through it and the rest was history.
Until now.
Brooke Haslett was murdered in the same way as Chet's victims. She was also the daughter of a woman Mark had treated forty-three years ago.
Joanna Lenhoff was one of Whittington's nursing students and call girls. Now she was dead, too.
There were three people on the board with personal ties to those past events who Mark thought might be involved in some way in the murders of Brooke and Joanna.
