“Heads up,” Eddie said, jutting his chin toward the door.
So, he thought, the Silver Threads weren’t waiting outside after all. Or had they only sent a delegation? The woman called Velma and the Brillo-haired spokesman flanked a middle-aged couple who walked numbly, as if anesthetized. Tejeda didn’t recognize them from the Silver interrogations or hearings.
The woman held his eye, she was so strikingly plain. Stuck somewhere between forty and fifty, he guessed. Her dress, though clean and pressed, was so near to being both formless and colorless that he wondered where she could possibly have acquired it.
While the woman looked tired, haggard even, the thin man clinging to her arm seemed absolutely beaten down. The pair moved toward the conference table, propped up by the Silver Threads pair as if they were marathon dancers trying to hang on until midnight. Just looking at them, Tejeda knew that whatever circumstance had brought them here wasn’t the first tragedy in their lives.
He nudged Eddie’s foot and nodded toward the couple.
“John Doe’s parents,” Eddie said. “Wallace and Lillian Morrow. Little Lake, Iowa.”
Otis was watching the Morrows too. He shuddered, took a big gulp from his mug, then got up from Eddie’s chair. As he stood, he leaned close to Tejeda. “It’s show time,” he said, and Tejeda hoped Otis had a strong mint in his pocket; coffee wasn’t enough to cover the booze on his breath.
Tejeda pulled his legs in and moved his chair closer to Eddie’s. “Why are the parents here?”
“Their request.”
“Pretty brutal.” Tejeda studied the Morrows again.
“Get out the smelling salts. They don’t look up to this.”
“We’ll see.” Eddie shrugged as Otis gaveled the inquest to order.
While Otis went through the preliminaries and his usual pontificating about the tragedy before them, Tejeda surveyed the group assembled around the long table. Most of the official types from the initial discovery on the beach were here: Angelo Tibbs from harbor patrol, Rebecca Farmer from lifeguards, Vic Spago, and so on. There were also two uniformed Marines; one seasoned brass, a captain, and the other a very young enlisted man. Tejeda had a hunch that they used the same barber as had the object of this inquest.
He was thinking about how much easier the investigation was when the head was found, rather than other body parts, because it carried identifiers in hair and teeth and facial features, when he noticed Maria Cosretti, the assistant D.A., trying to get his eye, smiling at him. He waved, then moved his attention to the man sitting on the far side of her. Tejeda recognized the man, even though he was camouflaged here in a gray three-piece suit. This was one of the joggers who had discovered the head.
The jogger was the first witness called.
“Now, just relax,” Otis told him. “This is not a trial. We simply seek to learn the truth about the demise of the young man known officially as John Doe—Santa Angelica number 003.
“Now, sir, will you please identify yourself for the record?”
The jogger stood up and looked around, apparently not knowing where he should go or what he should do.
“Just sit right there beside our pretty Miss Cosretti,” Otis said. Then he turned to the assistant D.A. “Maria, am I in trouble with local or federal law if I call you pretty?”
“You might be, Otis,” the D.A. said in firm courtroom tones. “Perhaps a more androgynous adjective would be preferable, for example ‘nice-looking,’ ‘handsome,’ or, the always safe ‘damn fine.’”
“Thank you, counselor,” Otis chuckled, and the atmosphere in the room seemed palpably lighter. “Now, sir, for the record, will you identify yourself?”
“Gregory Joiner.”
“Occupation?”
“Certified life underwriter.” Then he gave an address in a new, upscale housing development in a nearby suburb and was sworn.
“Mr. Joiner,” Otis said, “I believe you made the initial discovery of the remains on Monday last. Will you describe how you came to be at that spot and what you found?”
“Mondays and Thursdays I jog with my partner.” Joiner made an effort to relax. “It’s the only way we can talk without interruptions. Anyway, we saw this Christmas box in the surf and we opened it. And …”
After waiting for Joiner, who seemed about to lose out to some powerful emotion, Otis offered encouragement. “In the box you found the remains?”
“Just the …” Joiner glanced at the parents and stopped.
“What time was the discovery made?” Otis asked.
“At four-ten P.M.”
“Had you passed this place earlier?”
“Yes,” Joiner said. “At around three-forty-five.”
“Was the box there at three-forty-five?”
“Definitely not. We would have seen it.”
“Exactly where on the beach was this?”
“You mean the address?”
“If you can.”
Joiner took a breath and held it while he thought. “Below the bluffs that run along Ocean Avenue. I don’t know the closest cross street, but it was opposite those mansions that were in the news this summer. There was a murder or something.” He looked up at Otis. “You know where I mean?”
“Lieutenant Tejeda,” Otis said. “What’s the address there?”
“Twelve-hundred Ocean,” Tejeda said, looking at the back of Eddie’s head.
“Thank you,” Otis said. As Otis continued questioning Joiner, Tejeda noticed a spark of life flicker between the Morrows of Iowa. What made him uncomfortable was that he seemed to have ignited this spark for them; it was obvious from the way they peeked up at him that he was the subject of their whispered conversation, the source of some sort of hope.
Gregory Joiner was followed by the lifeguard who had relayed the discovery to harbor patrol, who then radioed the police. Each person in the chain offered another nugget, but little of it was information that Tejeda hadn’t already heard or seen for himself. Until Otis called on the Morrows of Little Lake, Iowa.
Mrs. Morrow pulled a half-full packet of Kleenex from her vinyl purse and self-consciously tried to extract one without rustling the plastic wrapper. This was a churchgoer’s reflex, Tejeda thought, this fear of making noise and interrupting the word of God. Then he sat back with his arms folded across his chest and studied the woman for what she might reveal about her son. He wondered whether the closest she had ever come to an official proceeding was in her church in Little Lake.
“Mr. and Mrs. Morrow,” Otis said in his best fatherly voice. “You know you can forgo this inquest. We have your sworn depositions, and unless or until this case goes to trial, that is sufficient.”
“We want to be here,” Wallace Morrow said as Mrs. Morrow dabbed at her eyes. “We’ll do anything we can to find out what happened to our boy.”
Otis looked down at the notepad in front of him before he spoke. “Were you asked to identify the remains known here as John Doe—Santa Angelica 003?”
“Yes. He is …” The man blinked twice. “He was our son, Wally. Wallace Lee Morrow, Jr.”
“Did he have any identifying marks?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Morrow said, her voice soft, her control tentative. “He had a bad case of chickenpox when he was three. Left him with scars. He had four of them on his forehead. Made a perfect little square.”
Tejeda turned away as she choked back her sobs. Wally for her at that moment, he suspected, was a vulnerable three-year-old sick with chickenpox. These were people without great expectations, and it seemed to him that what little leavening this world had offered them may have been snuffed out with the death of their son.
Otis cleared his throat. “Would you like to be excused?”
“No,” Mrs. Morrow said firmly.
“Then please tell us a few things about your son, in hopes some light can be shed on the circumstances that brought his death.” Otis glanced at Mrs. Morrow. “How old was the boy?”
“Nineteen.”
Otis shook his head. “The evidence indicates your son was involved in a homosexual act before his death.”
“My son was no homosexual,” Mr. Morrow said with quiet ferocity. “No matter what they say.”
“Wall,” Mrs. Morrow said, laying a hand on his arm.
“Mrs. Morrow?” Otis encouraged.
“Now, what my husband told you was the truth,” she said. “But there was an incident when Wally was in high school. He was real close to his wrestling coach, so when the coach died the authorities questioned our Wally.”
“How did the coach die, Mrs. Morrow?”
“You may never have heard of this,” she said, her fierce blush adding appealing color to her face. Tejeda for the first time got a hint of what she might have been if she’d been dealt a different hand.
“Go ahead,” Otis encouraged.
Mrs. Morrow was looking at her folded hands when she spoke again. “Autoeroticism, it’s called.”
Otis dropped his folksy smile and took a long drag on his coffee cup. “Why did they question your son?”
“Wally called the police.”
“Was he with the coach when he died?”
Mrs. Morrow nodded. “The juvenile-court judge let him join the Marines instead of going to the honor camp.”
The Marine captain sitting at the far end of the table seemed to be flexing his jaw muscles. When Otis called on him to testify, he seemed more than ready to express himself.
“If I ever met Lance Corporal Wallace Lee Morrow Jr. personally, I don’t remember it,” the captain said. “But I have familiarized myself with his records. He had good ratings as a mechanic, as a Marine. There is only one negative mark during his eleven months in the Corps. Three weeks ago he was found to be in possession of an unauthorized substance.”
“Drugs?” Otis asked.
The Marine glanced at the Morrows. “Amyl nitrite.”
Eddie whipped around and looked at Tejeda. “Poppers?” he mouthed.
“As a result of this infraction, Corporal Morrow was restricted to base until last Sunday,” the Marine continued. “He was given a twelve-hour pass, commencing at oh-nine hundred hours, terminating at twenty-one hundred hours. He failed to report at roll call Monday morning and was listed as absent without leave.”
The excruciatingly young Marine beside him was called next. Wally Morrow was his bunkmate and friend, he said.
“Was he homosexual?” Otis asked.
“No, sir,” the Marine responded, glancing at the captain to his right. “There are no homosexuals in the Marines.”
“When did you last see Corporal Morrow?”
“Sunday, sir.”
“Will you describe Corporal Morrow’s activities on Sunday?”
“We got a ride into Oceanside,” the private said. “Got something to eat, dropped off some laundry, hung around.”
“Hung around where?”
The boy looked again at the captain before he answered. “Clyde’s.”
Tejeda had half-expected the answer as soon as he had seen the uniforms: this case that seemed with each revelation to be an echo from his past had to begin with Clyde’s. He noticed how straight the captain was sitting, armored against some slings and arrows from the different reality of the world outside the Corps. If there were no gays in the Marines, then there was also no Clyde’s.
“What happened at Clyde’s?” Otis asked.
“Nothing. We shot some pool, had some beers.”
“Captain,” Otis said, “you know this place, Clyde’s?”
The captain nodded. Tejeda noticed how his face glowed with fresh sweat. “Clyde’s is a popular restaurant with the men.”
Tejeda wondered what sort of coaching the captain had given the young private during the drive up from Camp Pendleton. He knew from past experience that the Marines liked to handle any situation that involved their own.
Tejeda moved his chair up beside Eddie and caught Otis’ eye.
“So, Lieutenant Tejeda …” Otis smiled. “You have something to add?”
“May I ask the private a few questions?”
“You may.”
Tejeda turned in the direction of the young man, leaning forward so he could see his face better. “Were you in uniform at Clyde’s?”
“No, sir.”
“Why is that?”
“The place is off-limits for enlisted personnel, sir.”
“Why is that?”
The young Marine lost some of his starch. “It’s a gay bar, sir.”
“Had Corporal Morrow been to Clyde’s before Sunday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Often?”
“Every chance he got, sir.”
“You last saw him Sunday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was the very last thing you saw him do?”
“He got in a car with some guy, a civilian, and drove away with him, sir.”
“He got into the car voluntarily?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” Tejeda said as he leaned back in his chair.
Otis grinned. “Anything else, Lieutenant?”
“No. Sergeant Green here is going to take this man into custody as a material witness. He just might have some information that will help shed some light on a series of unresolved cases that may be related to the circumstances which brought about the unfortunate death of Wallace Lee Morrow Jr.”
Otis beamed at him. “It is the finding of this hearing that Wallace Lee Morrow Jr. met his death at the hands of another. I thank everyone for their participation. This hearing is adjourned.”
He turned immediately to the stenographer sitting behind him. “You get everything the lieutenant said, Fred?”
The stenographer nodded. “If I didn’t, it’s on the tape.”
Then Otis beckoned toward a youngish woman who had been sitting in a far corner writing furiously during the entire proceeding. “You from the Times?”
“No,” she said, “the Register. Can I ask a question?”
“Go ahead,” Otis said.
“Did Lieutenant Tejeda say this was a serial killing?”
“It’s a possibility,” Tejeda said.
“Similarities have been noticed between this case and the Arty Silver case that comes to trial Monday. Do you suspect they are connected?”
“Too early to say,” Tejeda answered. “Too early to rule it out.”
The reporter wrote something quickly, then glanced back at Tejeda. “And are you in charge of the investigation?”
Tejeda looked at Otis, who was nodding, obviously hoping for an affirmative answer. Then he turned to Spud, who only grinned.
“No comment,” he said.
7
“Nineteenth-century Europe to me is like one of those little glass balls you shake to make a snow scene.” Kate appealed to Lydia. “You know what I mean. Do they have a name?”
Lydia nodded. “They’re called little glass balls you shake to make a snow scene.”
“Thanks.” Kate smirked. It was ten minutes before the end of the class hour. Lydia had already moved off the lecture-hall stage and was leaning on the wall near a side exit, prepared for a quick retreat. There were gaps in the student crowd; about a quarter of the class of a hundred and fifty had taken an early start on the long Thanksgiving weekend. Among those dedicated enough to show up, Kate noticed an unusual number of clock watchers. “I think of Europe in the early nineteenth century as a scene in a glass ball that was given a good shaking. People from every European nation were scattered, eventually landing in clumps in the U.S., Canada, Argentina, South Africa, Algeria, Australia, Siberia. During the century before World War I, something like seventy million Europeans left the continent and settled permanently elsewhere.”
Kate acknowledged a hand waving furiously at the back of the lecture hall. “You have a question?”
“Yeah.” A tall kid with spiky lemon-yellow hair struggled out of his seat, clutching notes and textbooks against hi
s chest. “Is all that on the final?”
“Who asked that?” Lydia demanded. “Kolofsky, is that you?”
“No. It’s not me.”
The class laughed as the blond head dropped into anonymity among the other students.
“About the exam,” Kate said. “Professor Callahan and I were discussing it only this morning.” She turned to Lydia. “Right?”
“Must have been.”
“Last semester we had a student who wrote the best essay either of us had ever seen. It was so near perfection that it makes any other response less than useless. To save you the embarrassment of failing to come up to that standard, and to save us the bother of reading your attempts, we’re considering duplicating that essay for you to copy into your blue books. Give you a chance to touch greatness.”
“Anyway,” Lydia said, “we have reservations to be on a plane an hour after the final.”
“But just in case the department Xerox goes out again before exam week,” Kate said,”maybe you should go ahead and study all of this.”
Kate expected to hear Lydia’s rejoinder over the din of moaning and laughter; Lydia usually had the last word. But Lydia seemed to have become involved in a tug-of-war with someone who was trying to come in through a side exit. Kate wondered why the struggle; they often had auditors, though it was against college rules. There were only a few minutes left of the class hour anyway, so why bother? Why not just let him in?
A woman student rose on the far side of the room and Kate had to strain to hear her soft voice. “Is the exam comprehensive?”
“Yes,” Kate said, distracted by the activity at the door. Lydia seemed to have lost her battle over control of the door, and sight of the man who oozed in past her made Kate’s face burn. Craig Hardy, the local-news reporter for the Daily Angel, came far enough inside to put himself out of Lydia’s reach. He was slowed in his progress toward Kate by students who were prematurely leaking away from their seats and heading for the side exits.
Kate forced her attention back to the woman who had asked about the exam. “Don’t panic yet; the final is weeks away. Now, everyone go away. Have a good holiday.”
Lydia shouted over the end-of-class rustlings: “The library now has three copies of Gorky’s Lower Depths and a variety of G. B. Shaw on overnight reserve. Take one home for the weekend. See you Monday.”
Half a Mind (The Kate Teague Mysteries) Page 6
