by Jan Burke
We sat staring at him for a fraction of a moment, then Mark said, “So your mom wouldn’t have met your stepfather if the child care center hadn’t closed?”
He shrugged. “I guess not. But I wouldn’t have met the Yorks either, or lived in a better house. To tell the truth, I’d forgotten about the day care thing having anything to do with moving to Las Piernas.”
We asked about his memories of the Olympus Child Care Center. Although he vaguely remembered the routine of being taken there after school each day, he didn’t remember Pauline or Jimmy Grant, and had no real recollection of Robbie Robinson.
“Is your mother still living?” Mark asked.
“No, my mom died in 1977.” He paused, then asked, “How come all you ask me about is this child care center?”
I explained that the victims had all come to Las Piernas at the same time, following the closure of the center.
He frowned. He kept his eyes on the beer bottle when he asked, “Does this mean I haven’t helped you out after all?”
“You’ve helped,” I said.
Mark surprised me by changing the subject. “Mind if I look at that photo over there?”
Edgerton shifted a little in his chair, and suddenly became fascinated with peeling the label off the bottle. But he said, “No, go ahead.”
Mark stood up and walked to the other end of the room.
“Sorry if I was a little abrupt with you when you first got here,” Edgerton said, still concentrating his gaze on the label. “I’ve been on edge since I read about the Mercury Aircraft thing, and having the cops around here all the time — well, I feel like I’m the one who’s done something wrong. I feel hemmed in. I was supposed to go hunting tomorrow, now they tell me I probably shouldn’t be off alone anywhere. Guess I blamed the paper for the cops camping out here.”
I was about to reply when Mark shouted, “The Dodgers! Good Lord, look at this, Irene!”
Edgerton glanced up at me, then shrugged. I went over to where Mark stood.
“Duke Snider, Gil Hodges, Jim Gilliam, Carl Furillo, Johnny Roseboro,” Mark was saying. “And check out the pitching! Hell, there’s Koufax, Podres, Drysdale — what year was this taken?”
“1958,” Edgerton said.
“1958? The first year they played in L.A.?”
“Yeah. Otherwise not a banner year for L.A. We were 71-83 at the end of the season.”
“We?” I asked, but Mark had already picked him out.
“Look, he’s right here!”
Sure enough, a younger Don Edgerton stared back at us from the photo, his posture just as good in those days. He was right in among those people whose baseball cards I used to carry in my back pocket like a family photo album. My collection didn’t start until the 1960s, but I was a devoted Dodgers fan. While Barbara screamed her way through ten or eleven screenings of A Hard Day’s Night, I was wondering if Sandy Koufax would marry me.
“You played with the Dodgers?” I was still amazed.
“Just about long enough for them to take that photo,” Edgerton said. “They called me up for a cup of coffee. I was back in the minors after three games that year.”
“Still, you made it to the big show,” Mark said. “And it was tougher then. Fewer teams, smaller rosters.”
“Oh, I got called back a few times. I was a utility infielder with a decent glove, but I couldn’t consistently hit a curveball, so I’d always end up back in the minors again.”
“How long did you play in the minors?”
“Oh, about eight years. Coached for a while in the minors. Then I came back here and worked for Las Piernas College. Coach baseball, teach fencing and archery.”
“Fencing and archery?” I asked. The guy was full of surprises.
“Yeah, outdated skills, some might say. But I’m a believer in them. I have this theory. Men aren’t men anymore. We’re all getting too soft. Fencing requires grace and agility and quick reflexes. I’d like to see some of these kids that are so hot with video games try it. As for archery, well, that’s how I do my hunting — strictly bow and arrow. Guns aren’t sporting, if you ask me.”
Before I could make a response, he turned to Mark and said, “You did pretty good on that photo. Most people your age can’t name half those guys. Are you a player or a fan?”
Mark smiled. “Both, I guess. I played center field for a semester in college before I ruined a knee.”
The next thing I knew, a serious — and I mean serious — baseball discussion ensued. “Let me show you some other photos,” Edgerton said. He took us down a hallway to a small back bedroom that had been converted into an office.
There was an old olive green filing cabinet and a big wooden desk. A computer sat on the desk, a bulky plastic cover tossed to one side of it. There were framed photos covering almost every inch of wall space. Most were of the Dodgers, many much more recent than the one in the living room.
“These are terrific,” Mark said. “Are you friends with the team photographer?”
“No,” he said, turning red. “I took them. Hobby of mine.” He saw me walk over to the desk — I admit I was hoping to snoop a little — and quickly ushered us out of the room again. “Look, if there’s nothing more I can do for you…”
“Nothing more at the moment,” I said. “Thanks for your help. And for the opportunity to see your photos.”
We said pleasant, if somewhat rushed, good-byes and left.
“OKAY, OUT WITH it,” Mark said, starting up the car.
“He’s a strange one. And he’s nervous about something — I noticed that even before he gave us the bum’s rush.”
“I have the same feeling. And I don’t think it’s the threat of Thanatos coming after him. I just can’t figure out what it is.”
We saw Edgerton’s front door open again. The Marx Brothers ran across the porch to the fence and started barking wildly at us. The audience across the street was long gone, but the detectives were laughing like they had been treated to a double feature of the original Marx Brothers.
“Shit,” Mark said, and drove off.
23
FRANK AND CODY WERE WAITING up for me when I came in at midnight that night. I had called and left a message on our machine saying I would be late, but the look of relief Frank gave me served as a reminder that he was still easily worried about me.
“I was just getting ready to call the paper,” he said.
“I’m safe and sound. Any messages?”
“You got a call from a woman named Louisa Parker. She said you talked to her son today — Howard Parker?”
“Yes. It seems he’s the only one whose mother is still living and mentally competent.”
“She said she wanted to talk to you, asked me to have you call her tomorrow. Mind if I go along with you?”
“I’ll have to clear it with John, but I don’t mind.”
“I talked to Carlos Hernandez today. He’s fairly certain Rosie Thayer died of a coronary, and that the coronary was induced by a lethal injection of some type. Toxicology reports will take a while yet.”
“He found an injection mark on her?”
“Yes. That took some time because of the ant bites, but they found it.”
“So then everything else was just staged? The death by starvation or dehydration never happened?”
“No, she died quickly.”
“Strange, isn’t it? As if he felt he had to kill her, but that he couldn’t bring himself to go through with the cruelty of starving her.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But I suspect that’s wishful thinking on your part. From his point of view, it’s much more practical to kill the victim quickly. He’s careful, and a careful man wouldn’t want to risk a victim’s escape. If she’s dead, she doesn’t make noise. Less risk of interference or discovery by others.”
Given Thanatos’ desire for control, I decided Frank’s interpretation of the lethal injection was probably right.
I went out to pet the dogs, who looked up at me quizzi
cally when I told them they would not be named after film comedians.
AS IT TURNED OUT, I almost changed my mind about having Frank go with me to talk to Louisa Parker. We started the morning off with an argument, another round in our ongoing fight about what he calls my carelessness and I call his overprotectiveness. I had awakened before he did, and gone for a run on the beach with the dogs. He was furious with me for going out alone.
“I had the dogs with me,” I protested.
This did not appease him in the least. We argued while he drove me to work. We argued in the parking lot. The argument wasn’t really settled before I got out of his car. Throughout the morning, I wondered if it would ever be settled.
JOHN WAS PLEASED with the stories Mark and I had turned in the night before, though as usual, we didn’t learn that directly from him. He works very hard at keeping his staff from thinking too highly of themselves.
Mark got a break on another story he had been working on, and wasn’t free to see Mrs. Parker. John asked me if I wanted to take Frank with me. He could see that I was surprised at the suggestion. “Just consider this a little belated Christmas gift from me to you, Kelly.”
“A gift from you?”
“Look, no use having you take any chances.” He smiled at my scowl and added, “If Thanatos kills you, Wrigley will probably freeze your position, and I’ll be out a reporter.”
“Now, that’s more like the old Ebenezer Walters we’ve all come to know and love.”
I figured this was a sign from on high and called Frank.
“Harriman,” he answered. He sounded unhappy. I hadn’t thought our argument affected him that much.
“Hi, Harriman. Still want to talk to Louisa Parker?”
“Irene? Yeah, I do. More than ever.”
“What do you mean, ‘more than ever’?”
“I guess Hobson Devoe hasn’t called you yet.”
“No, why?”
“Hope we don’t need to look up anything else in those personnel records we went through.”
“Mercury had a change of heart?”
“I wish it was something that simple. The records have been wiped out.”
“Wiped out? How?”
“Apparently it’s the work of a hacker. Wiped out all kinds of records, not just the war years.”
“A hacker? At an aircraft company? Don’t they have security systems on their computers?”
“I asked the same thing. They have very sophisticated protection on the computers that store accounting design, production, and other records. A small percentage of employee records, mainly those of people with very high-level government security clearances or people connected with sensitive projects, are well-protected records. But most of the personnel records, especially the older ones, aren’t as difficult to gain access to — the ones we looked at were just used for J.D. Anderson’s studies. And Devoe said the hacker really knew what he or she was doing.”
“When did this happen?”
“About three o’clock this morning, but they’re not exactly sure that’s significant. Could have been a destructive program someone planted before then. It may not be connected to Thanatos; Devoe said the other records included a group of pending workers’ compensation cases. In some ways, that’s more likely, because the cases include those of two people who worked on computers in Human Resources. They’re out with carpal tunnel syndrome complaints.”
“Do you believe that’s who did this? Workers’ compensation complainants?”
There was a long pause before he answered, “I don’t know. To be honest, I’m just too close to this. Carlson has someone else checking that out, which is fine with me.”
Neither of us said anything for a minute.
“Irene? You want to have lunch with me?”
“Sure. How about meeting me at the Galley?”
“Great. I could go for a pastrami sandwich. And I may have something for you on Pauline Grant by then.”
He told me his afternoon plans were all things that could be shuffled around or handled by Pete, so I was free to set up the appointment with Louisa Parker for whatever time worked out best.
When I called her, she was quite excited about talking to me, and had no objections to having Detective Harriman join us. She was taking an art class and wouldn’t be free until the late afternoon. We made an appointment for three o’clock.
FRANK WAS A little late for lunch, but he made up for it by handing over some startling news.
“I tried to look up Pauline Grant’s probation records,” he said. “I figured she would have been paroled a long time ago, but that maybe I could track her down.”
“And?”
“And she’s dead.”
“Well, I guess that’s not too much of a shock. She probably would have been about seventy-something by now, right?”
He shook his head. “No, I mean, she never made it out of prison.”
“What? I thought she was only up for manslaughter.”
“She was. And to be honest, I’m surprised they made that stick.”
“So what happened to her?”
“She was killed in prison. Not long after she was sentenced, in fact. I don’t have all the details yet, but from what I could learn, she was stabbed to death by a group of inmates.”
“Good Lord.” I thought about the interviews Mark and I had conducted the night before, how Justin Davis and Howard Parker had talked of Jimmy Grant. Bad enough to have been separated from his mother for a few years; worse yet, he had been orphaned. “Any idea what became of her son?”
“Not yet. The usual procedure would be to place him with family members. If no family members could be located, he would have been placed in foster care, maybe adopted, although he would have been hard to place at that age. The records are in L.A. County and too old to be readily accessible. Besides, for this kind of information, I’d need a warrant. That will take some time.”
“If the Department of Social Services is reluctant to open his records, what else can you do?”
“Oh, we’ll still have some options. Track down his mother’s Social Security records, see if anybody is collecting her payments. Look for school records, things like that.”
“A lot of work.”
“Yes, and a lot of time. No telling if he’s the one we want. He could be dead by now, or living in some other part of the country, maybe not even aware all of this is going on. But the victims sure as hell point back to somebody connected with what happened that day.”
“I can’t think of anyone who would have a stronger motive for revenge than Jimmy Grant. Alex Havens and Edna Blaylock testified against his mother. He was separated from her, and later she was killed.”
“But why did he wait so long? He has to be about fifty-four years old himself. Why didn’t he do this when he was in his teens or his twenties? And why involve you — choose you as his Cassandra?”
“I don’t know.” I doodled on my napkin as I thought about it, then noticed I was drawing figures shaped like fawns. I was the only person on earth who could discern them as such, of course. Film animators have nothing to fear from me.
“The people we’ve talked to so far were all children at the time,” I said. “Maybe Louisa Parker will be able to tell us more.”
He smiled. “I’m kind of surprised you asked me to come along with you to talk to her.”
“It wasn’t my idea.”
There went the smile. “Still pissed off at me?”
“No, but I’m thinking of seeing a doctor. Something’s really wrong with me — I can’t hold a grudge like I used to.”
At least the smile was back, and he did have the good sense to withhold any arrogant remarks on his ability to charm me out of a bad mood. He skated dangerously close to the edge, though, when he started whistling as we walked out to the car.
LOUISA PARKER LIVED in an area called Kelso Park, an older part of town. It was an oddball neighborhood; little wood-frame houses built in the 1930s were sandwic
hed between large buildings of fifty or more condos each.
Developers would buy a couple of the old houses, which were on large lots, tear them down, and replace them with four-story buildings. At most, the builders provided one parking space per condo in underground, gated lots. Street parking was a bitch.
If, like Louisa Parker, you were one of the people who owned a house, you were suddenly living in a canyon. And with three walls of condo balconies surrounding you, you didn’t have much privacy. Not exactly conducive to things like nude sunbathing in your own yard. Not that I imagined Louisa Parker was into baring all.
“I wonder what the air quality is like when all those condo folks get out on their balconies and barbecue,” I said to Frank as we walked down the sidewalk toward her house. He just gave me one of those looks that said he would never understand how my mind works.
I like it that way.
He knocked on the front door, and it fairly flew open before his knuckles left the wood. He had his ID in hand, but she didn’t so much as glance at it. “Irene Kelly!” she said. “I can’t believe I’m going to have Irene Kelly right in my own home! Come in, come in!”
My photo will run next to one of my occasional commentary columns, so once in a while I’m recognized on the street. Although I’ll get mail or phone calls from readers, I rarely encounter people who are what you might call fans. Louisa Parker was a true fan. I would be a first-class liar if I said this wasn’t pleasing, but I’m never quite ready for it when it happens.
She was a bundle of energy. She was grinning from ear to ear as she shook my hand with a firm grip and ushered us inside. As she led us into the living room, I could see why Howard Parker thought she might outlive him. She was tall, like her son, but not as thin. She wore her gray hair like a crown of glory, and had a few wrinkles, but you wouldn’t find it easy to guess her age without missing by a couple of decades. She looked great.
