by Ann Benson
“So he just flew in from wherever he was for the day to come pay me a visit and then went right back out again?”
“I can’t speculate about my client’s motives for going where he goes,” the lawyer whined. He looked much more authoritative wearing non-golf clothes, but he didn’t sound any better. “Mr. Durand is still quite distraught over your commandeering of his studio. He has a schedule to meet and now he has to work very hard not to miss his deadlines.”
“He wasn’t working here when we arrived.”
“He might have been working on location somewhere; I don’t know. But I do know that he can’t work in his studio with that kind of disruption.”
“All he had to do was ask us to leave.”
“And you would have vacated the premises?”
He was deliberately leading me off track, and I was falling for it.
“Where is he?” I demanded.
“I have no idea.”
“But you’ve been in communication with Mr. Durand.”
“That’s privileged information, Detective.”
I could feel the frustration building in myself; it wouldn’t be long before I popped and started shouting. Spence must have sensed it, because he poked me in the elbow and saved me by asking, “Do you mind if we have another look around?”
“I mind very much.”
“When he comes back,” I said, “please tell your client that I’d like to have a word with him. Oh, and you might add that we have a warrant for his arrest.”
The lawyer never asked for what crime.
We went back outside and radioed the crew that had gone to Durand’s house. All they had to report was the same gibberish-spewing houseboy, with no Durand.
We had no choice but to leave. We went back out into the late-afternoon sun with its piercing, low-angled rays, the ones that make everything look decrepit.
“So, what’s plan B?” Spence asked.
“There is no plan B,” I said. “There was barely a plan A.”
He stared at me in near disbelief. “Come on, Lany, you have a plan B for when you lose your nail file.”
“I’m not kidding, Spence. No plan B.”
“So what do we do now, all dressed up with no one to pinch?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think we should flush him.”
“How?” Fred said. “You said yourself the guy’s a human disappearing act. And we can’t put that out yet.”
A couple of brass and a few detectives from the division were in on this emergency meeting. I was in the hot seat again, and I had to come up with something fast.
“I know someone at the Times,” I offered. “I haven’t worked with her in a while, but we used to have a pretty solid relationship. If we offer her something in exchange, we might be able to get her to put it out for us that Durand is somehow involved, although we could stay short of calling him an actual suspect. She could refer to anonymous police-department sources so no one’s ass will get kicked by anyone upstairs.”
“You trust her?”
“Yeah. I think so. As I said, it’s been a while, but she was always a very decent person.”
I expected more resistance from Fred, but he seemed ready to try just about anything. “It might be worth a shot. But before it goes to press, I’d like to get a look at whatever it is she’s going to say.”
What was he thinking? “I don’t know, Fred, she’d probably object to that. Editorial autonomy.”
“I’m not gonna correct her grammar, Dunbar. I just want to make sure that the gist of it is what we want it to be.”
“She’ll probably want something exclusive when it breaks for that kind of cooperation.”
“First interview with you, how’s that?”
“What if I don’t want to do any interviews?”
“Tough.”
Well. There I had it.
It was a tender negotiation, but we managed to work out a reasonable deal, just the two of us, no brass, no Fred, no editors. She agreed to plant the article in exchange for immediate access to the process when it was under way, regardless of how the rest of the press was being handled. And I would sit down with her for one hour as soon as I managed to break away from the arrest paperwork, during which time we would speak freely about the case and how it had developed.
The next morning, the shit hit the fan.
Anonymous police sources have revealed that Hollywood special-effects and makeup genius Wilbur Durand, whose stellar career has included work on some of the top-grossing horror-genre films of all time, is under investigation in connection with a series of disappearances of young boys in the Los Angeles area. His recently released motion picture, They Eat Small Children There, by all accounts a spectacular success, was the first effort of his own production company, Angel Films. Durand, 40, is considered by many Hollywood stars to be the best makeup artist of his generation, though that title hardly encompasses his range of skills. One actress, who wishes to remain unnamed, is quoted as saying, “He could make me look really young again like no one else could.”
After what one investigator describes as a “long and thorough investigation,” Durand is being sought for questioning in connection with the separate disappearances of three young boys, two age 13 and one 12, all of whom were abducted from western sections of Los Angeles. One has been missing for approximately two years, another for about one year, and the third for about two months. Items thought to belong to each of the three missing boys were found hidden in Durand’s work studio and were later positively identified by relatives of the boys. He is also under investigation for possible involvement in the death of Earl Jackson, age 12, whose body was found in an abandoned parking area near the airport last week.
Durand himself has not been seen by authorities since shortly before the evidentiary items were discovered, at which time he came to the Crimes Against Children division and confronted investigators over what he felt was harassment in the search of his work premises. He demanded that his work space be released back to him. As a result of information gathered in the temporary seizure and search of Durand’s premises, a multiyear series of disappearances of young boys, previously considered to be the work of separate abductors, is now being treated as potentially the work of one individual.
Durand has apparently been suspected of involvement in these disappearances for some time, but police sources say that information regarding him has been difficult to develop. They cite his well-known reclusive tendencies as an obstacle to the investigation.
Additionally, one unnamed police officer close to the investigation claims that Durand’s exalted position in the film community has sheltered him somewhat, similar to the deference accorded to O. J. Simpson at the beginning of his legal troubles. According to that officer, it’s not unusual for well-known members of the Los Angeles film community to be given special consideration when they have difficulties. “Cops are no different than any other people—they want to rub elbows with the stars. What better way than to be an ally when a star has trouble.” When asked to comment, Los Angeles police spokeswoman Heather Maroney refuted these assertions vehemently, calling them “irresponsible and unsubstantiated.”
A nationwide search is under way for Durand, whose whereabouts remain unknown. He is not thought to be carrying a weapon but should be considered extremely dangerous, especially to children. His spokesman says he has been “out of the country” working on a film, a claim that has not been verified. Because of his facility in creating alternative appearances, it is unlikely that Durand is traveling as himself. Los Angeles police have set up a toll-free number that may be called by people who think they have seen him. Those calling the tip line may remain anonymous if they wish to, but anyone giving information that leads to Durand’s arrest may receive all or part of any future reward(s).
Three minutes after the paper arrived on Fred’s desk, I was summoned to his office.
“I didn’t see any of this ‘deference’ stuff in the co
py I read.” He whacked the article hard with one hand; it had to have hurt. “What is this shit, anyway?”
“I told you, they have editors. My friend didn’t want to tell her editor that this was all arranged, so she couldn’t keep the extra stuff out.”
“Bullshit. That was you putting that in there.”
He was right—it was me. I slipped it in between Fred’s reading and the editor’s final run-through. It hadn’t been axed. But the truth would never surface. “No, Fred,” I lied, “it wasn’t me. I gave her the okay on what she originally wrote and the rest of it just sort of got worked in. Don’t forget, these people get paid to have big imaginations and to stretch the truth.”
“Well, guess what, now that this is out, my neck is gonna get stretched if we don’t find this guy fast. Yours too.”
Pictures of the nondescript Wilbur Durand were emblazoned on the front page of every newspaper in the country. Mexico and Canada were on high alert to look for the fugitive genius, as were the European nations. His story prompted international headlines, quite predictably: It was dripping with the juice that none of us can seem to resist, though very few of us will admit it.
I’m not ashamed. I have to confess that I’m just as much of a sucker for this kind of intrigue as anyone is. I suppose that irresistibility is a good part of why I became a cop; I did my time on the street, but I always knew I would end up a detective—there are some things I just have to know. I got some of the answers in Boston, but it wasn’t enough.
Like how it is that a man with such immense wealth and power, such incomprehensible genius, such enviable talent can become what he became. If I had his money and his brains, I would sure as hell rule the world, because that’s what you can do when you have what he has.
And the next thing I’d want to know is how parents with that kind of child can fail to recognize and nurture his strengths. That’s bad enough, but to take it a step further and actually damage him, well, that has to be some kind of crime.
Finally, someone needs to tell me why it is that the deepest part of my heart feels some sympathy for this monster, while my brain is screaming, Fry the bastard, now.
Everyone seemed to want to touch the ring after the story broke. We had every psychic, every forensic psychologist, every profiler in the country begging to take part. This case would be a cash cow to anyone with the proper tools to milk it, and they were lining up, pushing and shoving each other in a battle for a position already occupied by one Errol Erkinnen, who had paid his dues early on this one.
Calls came in to the tip line by the thousands. We went nuts following them up.
I saw him at the drugstore, you know, the one next to the Ultra Mart gas station. . . . He was in front of me at the movie theater line. I was seeing They Eat Small Children There, so it had to have been him, since that was his own movie. . . .
We saw him at the airport. He was dressed up like Greta Garbo, fur coat and all. In this weather, imagine wearing a fur coat—no one does that unless they have to, so it had to be him. . . .
He was trying to get into the locker room at the baseball stadium. He had this old, beat-up glove with him.
Or the ultimate impersonation: He was in uniform. I saw him hanging out with a couple of other cops. They didn’t figure it out, but I did. I knew it was him. . . .
The press frenzy neared the Simpson Line. Every day as I came in and out of the station, they were there with their truck-mounted disks and shoulder cameras and radio microphones. Women coiffed and made up at that hour of the morning, men Armanified before sunrise—what could motivate someone to do that? Of course it was the hope of a shot at the one serendipitous sound bite that would propel the lucky personality into the stratosphere of recognizability. This was one way to get the required Nielsen numbers.
I guess all jobs have their “numbers.”
I felt oddly insulated from all of it, courtesy of the anonymity that Fred insisted I maintain until we had a better handle on things. For once, I agreed with him. Before we identified Durand, there were good reasons to keep the public out. Now that we knew it was him, we needed the public’s help without its interference, a delicate state of affairs that is achieved only by careful public relations. For the first time in my career as a cop, I understood what Heather Maroney really did as spokeswoman—she was the front line in the battle with civilians. There was very little chance that someone from within the department would give me up, unless I had some unknown enemy within the ranks—and that seemed unlikely to me because I’d made a point not to step on anyone’s toes. Fred was more worried that someone from Durand’s organization would reveal my identity.
I did get given up, but not by anyone from the department, and not by anyone in the press. It was Wilbur Durand himself who finally let the world know who I was.
twenty-nine
In the core of my soul I now understood that Gilles de Rais was a monster, the demon himself, and in defining him so I hoped to disarm him so he would lose his power to affect me. Gone was the mater in me, the woman who had wiped away the boy’s tears and gentled him to sleep when his own mother would not do so. I could no longer bring myself to care for his anguish, his suffering, the terrible horrors that had happened to him at the hands of his grandfather, from whom no one—not I, not his absent parents, nor anyone—could protect him.
Hush, child—she is gone with your father to Pouzages. But take comfort, little one, they will return in less than a fortnight to Champtocé and you shall be reunited.
Of course, my young charge could not help but notice that Milord Guy and Lady Marie would often take René when they rode out, most often to Machecoul. I always suspected that the sickly younger brother, nearly lost in her labor, had a stronger hold on his mother’s heartstrings. Invariably there would be trouble when this occurred—perhaps not at the moment of their departure, but at the next occasion of disappointment, always quite unrelated to his perceived abandonment. On the slightest provocation he would strike out at me with his little fists and throw himself into a fit of temper. Sometimes when I tried to contain him he would thrust his arms up straight and propel himself downward through my grasp like a slithering snake, and when he landed on the floor he would kick his feet until the stones shuddered. I was forbidden by his parents to punish him for these dreadful tantrums when they were not present, even though he ought to have been harshly corrected. And when they were present their own discipline of the boy could best be described as timid and ineffectual.
Once, at wit’s end over this abhorrent behavior, I made a grave mistake, the consequences of which have haunted me ever since. I went to Jean de Craon, interrupted him at his accounting. When I explained my quandary, he set down his quill, cursed aloud, and declared that the child was being spoiled to a state of femininity. I waited patiently during the diatribe, hoping he would stop so I could ask him what I ought to do. His obscene declarations escalated until he exploded in a fit of swearing so vile as to sicken the very saints and angels.
He headed straightaway to the nursery, with me following close behind, pleading as we rushed along for him to be gentle in his corrections. We found the boy in the care of the nursery maid with whom I had left him. They were talking quietly and he seemed calm enough, which surprised me—he had been so upset when I put him into the girl’s arms. Jean de Craon, believing I had disturbed him without cause, gave me the most withering look I had ever received.
Please forgive me, Milord Jean, but this is a complete turnabout—a blessing, of course, but quite surprising since the boy was in a very agitated state when I left him and—
Without waiting for me to finish my plea for pardon, Jean de Craon turned and headed for the door, muttering vague curses as he departed. But no sooner was his grandfather’s back to us than Gilles started up again. He whined and sniveled for the benefit of the old man, who was about to abandon him as his mère and père had done.
What strange aberration was this, what departure from normalcy, wherein the ch
ild seeks out punitive attention, merely for the sake of having it when the more pleasant sort of attention is not available?
However deviant its nature, the performance was immensely successful, for on hearing the child’s wails, Jean de Craon turned back to us, his face contorted in anger, and headed directly toward him. Gilles performed magnificently; he stretched his body out on the floor and slammed his feet into the stones for all he was worth. The enraged old man lifted my little charge by the back of his collar and dropped him on the stones, then pummeled the lad with hardened fists as I stood by screaming for him to stop. The terrified maid dashed out, leaving me alone to defend the child against his brutal grandfather, who brushed off my attempt at intercession with far more ease than I would have expected from a man his age. He lifted a hand to me and would have beaten me as well, though I was not his own wife, had a concerned guard not knocked on the nursery door.
While the grandfather was distracted in dismissing the guard, I scooped up Gilles and ran, beseeching God to make my husband or someone else who might help me appear. Little Gilles lay like a whimpering rag in my arms as I escaped into the narrow passageway between the nursery and the chambers of Lady Marie. I knew the hiding places well enough, for every one of her ladies had been forced to disappear within her apartment at one time or another when Guy de Laval presented himself without notice in expectation of receiving Milady’s amorous attentions. On such occasions there was no time to depart gracefully, for he was a demanding lout who did not care to be kept waiting. He would take her on the spot, on a bench, against the wall, even standing, without waiting for all the rest of us to leave. So we slunk into hiding and waited in silence for Milord Guy to finish his business, which he usually did with brisk efficiency.
Such events, agonizing then, seemed mild in comparison to my distress of that moment, but the knowledge of the suite’s hiding places served me well in my immediate situation. As I passed through Lady Marie’s door, I whirled around to see Jean de Craon surging forward almost drunkenly in his rage to quarry us. Gilles was clinging and squirming, but I managed to free one hand and push the door shut. It whooshed against the lintel, wood echoing on wood. I gave the bolt a violent shove just as he was about to fall upon us. To my inexpressible relief, the bolt found home in its wild slide, and the door held. The vicious old brute slammed against it with such force that the planks began to bulge and splinter. With the child clinging to my breast, I dashed to a closet, while Jean de Craon pounded with impotent rage on the unyielding wood.
