by Terri Reid
“Look, I just…I want you to be sure about your decision to become a private investigator.” The kindness in his voice and the gaze in his eyes makes me want to melt. My face feels hot.
Once Will leaves, I dig in, carefully reading through copies of the autopsy report, various police reports, and Doreen Lyla’s death certificate. Next I look at photos of Doreen from that time, and then digest the newspaper articles that Steve’s family saved about the murder.
Amazingly, the killer appears to have left no clues so the evidence is slim. The police follow-up back in the seventies yielded very little, but it’s hard to believe this may have been a perfect crime.
Doreen was twenty-four at the time of her death and a popular, well-regarded teacher at the local high school. She sang in a church choir, worked out several times a week at a gym, and volunteered at a soup kitchen. The transcripts of the interviews indicate that everywhere she spent time, she left a trail of admirers.
I check out Brannigan’s list of candidates who were interviewed, create a shorter version, and then look up contact info. I’m itching to leave the office to investigate, but I don’t want Will to fire me before we’ve even started.
*
We meet at a Starbucks around the corner from Will’s office. I fill him in on what I’ve learned so far from the files.
“There were no clues at Doreen’s house, nothing from the killer, no prints, no defensive wounds, nothing under her nails. It looks like she turned to walk into the house and maybe he got her from behind.” I sip my decaf mocha. “Oh, and none of the neighbors saw anything.” I pull a yellowed snapshot out of my bag. “Here’s a picture of her house back then.”
Will studies it. “Those bushes by the front door were a good place to hide.”
“Or maybe Doreen knew the guy and blew him off,” I answer. “Then she turned to go inside, and that’s when he got her. According to the autopsy report, there were twenty-two stab wounds. They were all over her body, front and back.”
“A passionate attack like that, it’s a classic sign that the killer knew his victim, meaning he wasn’t a pro and there should have been mistakes.” Will slowly drinks his coffee. “It’s surprising there are no clues.”
I pull out another photograph, one of Doreen. “Here.” He looks closely. “She was beautiful,” I say. “And from what I’ve read, equally nice.”
He nods, pulls out a small pad, and writes a name and number. “Tomorrow morning at eight we’ll meet at Parklawn P.D. and spend time going through their cold case files. Give this guy a call. Let him know that Steve hired us, and we’d like to come by in the morning.”
“Got it,” I answer. “Here’s the preliminary list I put together of top candidates to re-interview.”
“Go ahead and set up meetings, in person or by phone. Try not to set up any evening interviews unless you have to. And never by yourself at night.” Will looks at me with a mixture of tenderness and sternness. “Are we clear?”
“Ten-four, boss.”
*
After setting up several appointments and leaving voice mails for others on my list, I reread everything Steve left with us, getting lost in the details of Doreen Lyla’s murder.
It’s late afternoon when I head home. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s “Woodstock” explodes from the radio in my red Mustang. Along the way I decide on a new destination, pull over, and reach for my case notes from the back seat. I put the address in my GPS and blast the music even more for the long drive in rush hour traffic.
It’s getting dark by the time I arrive, probably close to the time of day of Doreen’s murder. I stare at the scene of the crime, an ivory-colored stucco bungalow from the thirties with slate shingles and black shutters.
The large bushes that used to stand sentry on both sides of the front door are long gone. Now, a two-foot-high, neatly trimmed hedge stands in their place. There are lights on inside, and every now and then I see a silhouette run past a window.
I turn up my satellite radio when I hear Megan Trainer singing “Lips are Movin’.” My daughter Brooke had shown me the video on YouTube of a pretty, voluptuous blonde with lots of black eyeliner, and I loved the 1960s vibe to her music. I quickly text Brooke that I’m listening to the song again.
I look at the old photo of the house and then glance around the street filled with similar bungalows. It’s a quiet neighborhood, perfect for families or a young teacher like Doreen.
A car turns into the driveway and a woman gets out. The light over the door turns on as she runs up the front steps. Before she can open it, a young girl and boy fling open the door and rush to her with hugs. They all go inside.
Wouldn’t Doreen’s neighbors have heard her cry out when her attacker came at her? The music fades out as I mentally step back to 1972.
I imagine the two large bushes on either side of the front door, tall enough for someone to hide behind. Perhaps Doreen walked up the steps, tired at the end of a long day at school, and pulled out her keys. As she unlocked the door, she may have heard him behind her, maybe she even knew him.
Before she could fully register his unexpected presence, he grabbed her, covered her mouth, and stabbed her. He cut her again. Over and over, angrier and angrier, he kept stabbing as she dropped to the stoop. This hulking figure loomed over her, continuing to knife her. He didn’t need to cover her mouth anymore, because the life was finally out of her and she was quiet.
I snap back to the present where the stoop is empty. The neighborhood is quiet and peaceful, and I drive away listening to another talented blond musician famous for her heavy black eyeliner, 1960s icon Dusty Springfield, singing “I Only Want To Be With You.” I wonder if that was what the killer was thinking as he waited here to make his move. And if he couldn’t have her, no one else could either.
*
The next morning, Will and I walk down several aisles of gray metal shelves stuffed with files, black binders, large brown envelopes, cardboard boxes, and plastic tubs. Parklawn Police evidence tags hang out of many of the files and containers, names written on each of them.
“Are all of these homicide cases?” I know my voice sounds meek, but this room creeps me out.
“Not this entire room—many of these are active but not murders. We’re heading to that section over there.” Will directs me toward one corner. “This is where they keep some of their cold cases. Parklawn is close to Paterson, so their other case files are over there.” He looks for Doreen Lyla’s files.
“Do you have to do this a lot?” My voice sounds shaky.
He stops, looks at me, and puts a hand on my elbow. “Are you okay?”
“I will be in a moment.” I pause. “It’s a little overwhelming.”
“Ronnie, when you become a P.I., you’ll work all sorts of cases. This one just happens to be a homicide.” Will’s tone is gentle. “Remember, you’re working to see justice for Doreen and her family.”
I see a box labeled Lyla, Doreen. “There it is.” I also see Lyla tags on several notebooks and large envelopes.
Will pulls out several files from a shelf where Doreen’s case begins. He opens the first file and flips through several pages. “This looks like a master list of what’s stored in Doreen’s case.”
I peer over his shoulder. “Where do you recommend that I start?”
“Make a copy of this list so you can write on it as you go through everything.” He pulls a package from his jacket pocket. “Here are some temporary tags. Use them if things are out of order. Make sure the evidence people don’t remove them.”
Will explains the process of going through the records, writing summaries, and creating a timeline of the crime and investigation. Then he leaves to work on a separate case.
I look around at my bleak surroundings, pull out my laptop, and get to it.
*
A day later, after I finish summarizing folders, binders, evidence bags, and boxes, I feel like I’ve developed a good overview of this case. I’ve looked through au
topsy and incident reports, viewed gruesome photographs of the scene, and I’ve built the timeline of events.
It’s time to tackle the contents of two evidence boxes that grabbed my attention earlier. One contains a pair of bloody white go-go boots that Doreen wore when the killer attacked her. I had a pair just like them back then, and I try to imagine myself in hers. The thought sends a shiver through me.
I reach for a crime scene photograph and study it more closely. Doreen’s body is sprawled across the steps. She’s on her back, her arms stretched out to each side, her head turned slightly to the right.
She has on the boots and a paisley mini-dress with bell sleeves. Both are blood-splattered…I mean “spattered,” as I learned in class. A matching headband pulls her light hair back from her face.
I reach in my bag for a small dome-shaped magnifier and run it over the photograph. I spot a heavy-looking ring on one of Doreen’s hands, and what appears to be a charm bracelet on her other wrist.
I root around in the other box until I find clear bags containing the ring and bracelet. On one side of the bag is the form showing the chain of custody, and I see the names of both Detectives Brannigan and Paola.
I flip the sealed bags over and examine the ring first. It’s a 1966 class ring from Parklawn High. There’s dried blood on it, but is it Doreen’s blood from her knife wounds, or did she get a good slug at the killer before she went down? I make a note to check the reports to find out whose ring this was and follow up with Will. Whoever it belongs to, he’s never gotten it back. It has stayed locked in a dark evidence room for more than forty years.
I snap some pictures of it inside the evidence bag with my camera phone, wishing I could take the ring out for a better view, but I don’t dare.
Next I shift my attention to the bracelet. It’s silver, and so loaded with charms that they stick out in every direction rather than lay flat. I touch them through the evidence bag—there are probably a lot of memories tied up in these little objects.
I inspect a heart with two small birds in the middle. It looks like something a child would receive. I spot a silver St. Christopher’s medal on an oval baby-blue enamel background, perhaps a gift from a relative to protect her when traveling. A Victorian-era ring with tiny pearls and rubies attracts my attention. Was it maybe from a grandmother?
The bracelet has its share of creatures—an elephant, a turtle, and a West Highland terrier. Maybe she had a small Westie as a child? A silver gumball machine could have been a gift in junior high.
As I flip through the rest of the charms, I almost miss an empty loop that dangles between two other charms on one of the links. I hold the bag very close and see a slight gap between the two ends. That loop’s charm must have fallen off.
I check the paperwork on the contents of this evidence box. There’s no mention of the empty loop in the description of the bracelet. I take pictures of the bracelet and a few more of the ring.
The master list mentioned a journal that I find in a manila folder. After pulling on latex gloves, I reach in and remove a burgundy leather diary. I carefully flip through it and find its pages filled with beautiful handwriting. Doreen must have received an A+ in penmanship.
The journal is almost three-quarters full. The last date is September 20, 1972, the day before her murder.
Good day at school today. I shouldn’t have favorites, but I think mine may be my seniors’ creative writing class. The kids seem excited about the course. I love the class discussions, and their writing assignments show me they have a lot to offer. All except for one. There’s something troubling about B, and I’ll have to keep an eye on him.
Picked up my new dress from Serafina’s. It needed a few alterations, and now it’s perfect. I’ll wear it tomorrow when J takes me out to dinner. First date since K and I broke up…
I close the journal. Never in a million years could Doreen have imagined this would be her last entry. At only twenty-four, she had every expectation of a long life ahead.
I find a summary of the journal and go locate a copier, then spend the next half-hour Xeroxing both the summary and diary. This definitely warrants a thorough reading.
Glancing at my watch, I see that I have just enough time to put everything back on the correct shelves. I gather my things and head out. As I leave, I can almost hear Doreen’s voice pleading for me to bring her killer to justice.
*
Holding a glass of cabernet, I step into my large porcelain tub in the center of the white tile floor. A tray sits across the tub with my glasses and the copy of Doreen’s journal propped up for easy reading. Rather than the usual soft candlelight that I prefer when relaxing, I have the lights on. This particular soak in the tub is going to be a work session.
I slip into the warm water and look up at the huge photograph on the wall. “Hey, maybe you can help me figure this out,” I say to the man in the frame as I lean back in the tub with my glass. “This murder happened in 1972.”
A classic photograph of Sean Connery as 007 in black tie and holding his gun looks down at me. His expression in this famous picture is definitely inscrutable. Whatever he may have been thinking at the time, his gaze and our one-sided conversations help me unwind.
I look at the official summary of the journal which lists the full names of different people mentioned inside. The list includes her date on the evening she was murdered, the troubled student in her creative writing class, and her ex-boyfriend.
“Okay, James, Doreen was beautiful enough to be a Bond girl, but as a high school teacher she probably wasn’t your type. And her life certainly doesn’t sound very intriguing from this summary.” I sip my wine. “So why would anyone want to kill her?”
I tackle the journal in month-long chunks and flip back to the entry for August 20, 1972. It’s literally a day at the beach—a Sunday afternoon at the Jersey shore with her boyfriend. So they hadn’t broken up yet, but he’d volunteered for the military and would be leaving shortly for basic training. They’d been together for three years, and she’d been wearing Kenny’s ring since the beginning. It’s got to be the ring I looked at earlier.
I get to the entries where Doreen prepares for the upcoming school year. At one point she loses Kenny’s ring, and she’s in a panic to find it. Later she finds it, much to her relief, because she’s been terrified to write him that it’s missing.
I wonder how much of a temper the boyfriend had. If she’s that scared to tell a man three thousand miles away that she can’t find his ring, that’s probably where I should focus.
I go back to January 1972 and read forward in the journal, looking for clues about Kenny’s anger or how he treated Doreen. He definitely comes across as a hothead. Was he ever physically abusive? I can’t tell from the journal. Why did Doreen stay with him for three years? I assume the police checked him out thoroughly, but I write a note to make sure.
I continue flipping through the pages and reading. If Doreen had any deep, dark secrets, other than a boyfriend with a nasty temper, she didn’t commit them to paper.
A week before her murder, Doreen’s brother—Steve Lyla’s father, I think, remembering the dying man we’re doing this for—gives her an early birthday present. Doreen writes about it in her beautiful script.
Timmy gave me the sweetest gift—he added another charm to my bracelet, a tiny pair of silver boots. He remembered how my friends and I used to play “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” for hours on end when it first came out. I love it! He really is the best brother a girl could have.
I don’t remember a boot charm on Doreen’s bracelet in that evidence bag. I glance back at the police summary where anything of note gets a bullet point. There’s no entry for 9/14/72 when she received the gift. Detective Vincent Delgado wrote the summary, and in 1972 there was a good chance that everyone involved in the investigation was a man. Most men wouldn’t fully appreciate how special charm bracelets were to a girl her age.
By the time I’ve finished reading 1972 and am c
onsidering going back to January 1971, my skin is shriveled from sitting in the tub for so long. I get out and dry off quickly. Warrior’s already curled up in his dog nest when I pull on a baggy tee-shirt and crawl under the covers. The last thing I remember hearing is his soft snore.
*
The next morning, Will and I go over everything I learned in the evidence room. I pull out my phone and show him pictures of the heavy gold ring and the silver charm bracelet.
“The fact that both were found on her body after her murder rules out robbery,” Will says. “I think the ’72 investigation confirmed that.”
“Yes, it did,” I agree. “Will, there’s something about this charm bracelet that’s got my attention—” I shrug. “Call it a woman’s intuition.”
“It’s our job to look at every possible angle, but I’d focus on the ring and the boyfriend,” Will says. “It sounds like the guy’s got a temper. Even though he checked out, he deserves a revisit.”
We go over the list of prospective interviews I’ve organized. It’s still long, but Will narrows it down to a more manageable size. I’m ecstatic that he wants me to conduct the interviews because he’s still swamped with that other case of his.
“Remember, schedule them in public places or take me along,” he says. “Absolutely no night-time interviews without me. Are we clear?”
“Got it.”
“And when you talk to these people, ask them if they remember anyone strange who might have been stalking Doreen or behaving oddly in any other way, anyone who could have had a connection to her. No matter how obscure, it could be important.”
“Ten-seventy,” I say, making a feeble attempt at police-talk.
He looks at me funny. “Uh, I don’t think you mean ‘fire,’ which is a ten-seventy. I think you mean ten-sixty-nine, ‘message received?’”
“Yeah. Ten-sixty-nine, whatever.” My face feels flushed.
A slow grin appears on his very handsome face. “You’ve got to stop watching all those bad cop shows.” He stares at me with penetrating eyes and that look of his that never fails to make my knees go weak.
