by Alan Russell
Miller dropped a Hamilton on the table, took a last sip of his tonic water, and said, “If you don’t have any more questions for me, it’s time for me to go and face the music.”
We both stood up and shook hands. And then I took a seat again, and watched him leave. Even now I thought of Miller as a basset hound. He carried his sensitivity—and sadness—with him.
I sipped my iced tea and looked around the open space. Years ago there had been a reunion of the Munchkins. They had returned to the Culver Hotel and reminisced about their time making the movie. The little people had said tales of their debauchery were exaggerated, and that they were too tired from working fourteen-hour days to party to excess.
Still, there were persistent stories of many of the Munchkins getting drunk night after night and belting out the tune “Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead.” According to the stories, though, the little people preferred substituting the word “bitch.”
Right now my cases had me feeling like the Scarecrow. I wasn’t ready for my close-up, but I was ready for the refrain, “If I only had a brain.”
The witch wasn’t dead, but Paul Klein and baby Rose were.
Maybe Munchkinville wasn’t the idyllic place it was made out to be. There had been a Munchkin coroner in The Wizard of Oz, I remembered. His lines had always made me laugh, and I tried to remember them.
Finally they came to me and I said, “As coroner, I must aver, I thoroughly examined her. And she’s not only merely dead, she’s really most sincerely dead.”
I finished the iced tea. It was time to get back to the sincerely dead and those that had made them that way. That was a job that fell to cops, or maybe the Lollipop Guild.
“Refill?” the server asked.
“No thanks.”
Toto was waiting, I thought. Outside I watched palm trees bending to a strong gust of wind. At least I didn’t see any flying monkeys.
CHAPTER 10:
LA SAINTS AND LA AIN’TS
You know you’re leading a strange life when you find yourself looking forward to a visit to the morgue. In the morning I had fallen back to sleep after my burning, lulled by the image of Lisbet Keane and the aroma of pumpkin bread. Somewhere in my subconscious I had remembered my three-thirty meeting with the coroner, Lisbet, and Rose.
When you are working multiple cases, one invariably takes precedence. Because the Klein crucifixion was high-profile, I’d been forced to put the investigation of baby Rose on the back-burner, but her death had continued to play on my mind.
As far as I know there isn’t any official name for the spot where I was cooling my heels, but everybody calls it the body pickup zone. It’s a spot where you usually find mortuary employees or cemetery drivers waiting for bodies to be released by the Los Angeles County Department of Coroner, so it’s not somewhere that most people want to linger. I tried not to breathe through my nose while pacing around the outer room that served as a waiting area, but even the open-mouth trick wasn’t helping.
It would have been worse had I been inside watching the autopsy. That’s what I should have been doing, but I had convinced myself that my being a witness wasn’t important to the case. The truth of the matter is that I just couldn’t stomach the thought of watching another baby being cut open. I had been there for baby Moses; once was enough.
In LA, the coroner’s department is charged with looking into and determining the cause of all violent, sudden, or unusual deaths occurring within the county. On average, they investigate about twenty thousand deaths a year, with 10 percent of those deemed potential homicides. That results in around twenty autopsies every day; today baby Rose had been among that number. The pathologist had told me he would have the results by three o’clock, but I knew that I wasn’t the only one in on the death loop.
Lisbet Keane—aka the Saint—entered the body pickup zone, and when I saw her I forgot about the escaping odors of death that were causing my stomach to do loop-the-loops. Lisbet’s pale complexion set off her dark hair and wide-spaced eyes. She carried a smile a little fuller than Mona Lisa’s, but not that much fuller. When Lisbet saw me, her enigmatic smile deepened. Hours earlier, in the aftermath of my burning, I’d seen her appear looking just the same as she did now. All day I’d been looking forward to seeing her.
“Detective Gideon,” she said.
I was glad she remembered my name, but her memory might have been helped because we had talked on the phone earlier in the week about Rose.
“It’s nice to see you, Ms. Keane.”
As far as I can determine, Lisbet isn’t judgmental. I have never heard her condemn the mothers that abandoned their babies to such tragic circumstances; her emphasis is always on the babies themselves. Still, she seems to understand that LAPD has a job to do.
“I was afraid I was going to be late,” she said.
I refrained from telling her that Rose wasn’t going anywhere and instead said, “Dr. Chen’s running a little behind today.”
I positioned my head so that my left side was facing her. That’s my good side that doesn’t show the scarring. I rarely bother to do that, but then usually I’m not trying to impress anyone.
“How is Sirius?” she asked.
This proud father smiled. Most people shy away from police dogs, but that wasn’t the case with Lisbet. We had met during my investigation of baby Moses, the newborn that had drowned in the LA Aqueduct. Lisbet had invited me to attend Moses’s memorial service, and to my surprise I had agreed to do so. It had been a hot day, and the cemetery where Lisbet’s charges are buried is more than an hour’s drive outside of LA in the desert community of Calimesa. Because it was an outdoor ceremony, I positioned the car so that Sirius could see what was going on. Lisbet noticed him pacing in the backseat and told me it would be all right if I freed him to attend the service. Afterward Lisbet had praised his behavior, and Sirius had almost turned into a lapdog in his efforts to please her further.
“He’s out in the car getting some shut-eye. Most of his hair has grown back since the last time you saw him, so he’s getting to be his old, vain self again. He was a little more humble when he had all of those bald patches.”
She smiled at my words, and I had to remind myself that trying to make time with a woman there to attend to a dead baby might not be the best of ideas.
“He’s a sweetie,” she said.
“Yeah, he’s a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”
“I grew up with dogs. I wish I could have one, but my apartment doesn’t allow animals. I was considering moving into this complex that allows dogs, but then I learned they have to weigh less than ten pounds. That doesn’t sound like a dog to me.”
“I saw one of those miniature things last week. A woman was walking down Rodeo Drive carrying this designer dog in her designer bag. The thing looked like a rat with a bouffant.”
“I think I saw that same rat.”
We shared a little laugh, but it must have sounded as wrong to her ears as it did to mine for we both stopped abruptly. Being there for Rose made any laughter out of place. The silence between us grew until Lisbet bridged it with a question.
“How is your investigation going, Detective?”
I shook my head, not telling her that Paul Klein was taking up most of my time. “The race is not always to the swift.”
“Nor the battle to the strong.”
I shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t remember the next line.”
“I don’t either, but I seem to recall that it concludes by saying that time and chance happen to us all.”
“That’s what every investigation counts upon,” I said, “time and chance.”
The door opened, and Dr. John Chen and a clerk emerged. The clerk was carrying a clipboard and a small plastic bundle, and after Lisbet signed several forms he somberly passed over the package. The plastic masked but did not conceal the small, naked figure within.
“Hello, Rose,” Lisbet said, her tone gentle and caring.
Even though I expected Lisbet
to respond as she did, I still felt uncomfortable. Most people don’t deal with the dead in the way that she does, and I was relieved when she excused herself to go outside to carry on her one-way conversation with Rose. I knew that Lisbet always spent an hour or two at the coroner’s office giving the babies that were released to her the kind of welcome to the world they never received in life. Through a window I watched as she took a seat on a nearby bench and cradled Rose in her arms. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought that a mother had stopped to nurse her baby. I tried not to stare but couldn’t seem to avert my eyes. As I watched, I felt myself growing more and more conflicted. Lisbet was too young and vital to be spending all her attention on the dead. There was a part of me that wished I was the one nestled at her chest instead of a baby that would never respond to her.
I turned my eyes to Dr. Chen and saw he was also caught up in the viewing. I had always considered Chen as hard as nails, but I could see that behind his glasses his eyes were misting. Everyone at the coroner’s knows Lisbet; she has won over the entire building. On one occasion when Lisbet gathered one of her dead charges, a dozen workers had come out and sang “Amazing Grace.”
Chen abruptly turned away from Lisbet and looked down to the paperwork he was holding. He did his best to assume a cut-and-dried voice and said, “Cause of death appears to be positional asphyxiation.”
“Which means what exactly?”
“It means that respiratory compromise occurred and the baby suffocated.”
“Was it accidental or was she smothered?”
Coroners aren’t different from anyone else—they like to hedge their bets—but Chen didn’t see the need this time. “All signs point to it being accidental. Usually we see positional asphyxiation when a baby gets wedged in a space, most often between a mattress and a wall, but it can also happen when a baby gets entangled in bedding, which is what appears to have occurred.”
“Was the baby alive when she was abandoned?”
Chen nodded. “We found no evidence of trauma. The baby’s respiration was compromised because of the soft bedding she was placed in. With the box angled like it was, she was not strong enough to fight gravity and was smothered in the blanket wrapped around her.”
Gravity, I thought. “Would we were talking about an apple.”
Chen chose not to comment.
The late afternoon traffic was the usual stop and go, and with the time getting short I started nervously drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. After my burning dream I’d awakened to the aroma of pumpkin bread, and had decided my subconscious was telling me how to proceed. This particular gift shop was supposed to stay open until five, which left me twenty minutes to travel about a mile. In LA that’s no sure bet. As I continued to tap away at the steering wheel, Sirius got up and started pacing around.
I stopped my rapping. “All right, I’ll cease and desist with the drum rolls.”
My partner seemed glad to hear my voice. I had been silent since taking leave of the coroner’s office.
“When clues dry up, some detectives grasp at straws,” I said, “but not me. I grasp at crumbs and follow their trail.”
Judging by the thump-thump of his tail, Sirius seemed to think that was a pretty good thing.
“I suppose you think you’re going to extort some treats out of this visit. Think again, flea head. If you don’t watch out, people will start thinking you’re a doughnut-shop cop.”
Earlier, I had googled “pumpkin bread in Los Angeles,” and it had led me to an unlikely source: the Monastery of the Angels. There were a number of articles and websites that glowingly described the pumpkin bread made by the order of cloistered Dominican nuns just two blocks off of Hollywood Boulevard. The bread was made fresh every day and was sold out of the monastery’s gift shop.
I knew of the monastery’s existence but had only driven by it. The nuns had picked about as worldly a spot as there was to lead their cloistered lives. The monastery is only a stone’s throw from the 101 freeway; the traffic noise has to be a constant reminder of the world outside their walls. Many locals don’t even know about the monastery in the midst of the city. Its appearance is no giveaway: to the casual eye, its stucco walls and steel gates look more industrial than ecclesiastical.
Nearing the monastery, I found myself staring at a familiar sign propped up in the Beachwood Canyon foothills: HOLLYWOOD. The white lettering stood out in the growing dusk. I wondered if the nuns ever took notice of that same sign. I looked at my watch again. Like Cinderella, I had a pumpkin deadline.
It was five of five by the time I parked. I left Sirius behind and jogged through the parking lot, cutting over to the pathway that took me past the public chapel to the front reception area. There was an OPEN sign on the entrance door, which gave me hope, but that same door was closed and the reception area had a deserted look that appeared to contradict the invitation to come inside. I tried the door, found it locked, and then knocked. A muffled voice called out from somewhere inside the building, and then I heard footfalls. From inside the door a woman with a Jersey accent asked, “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m Detective Michael Gideon.”
A curtain opened and I held up my wallet shield.
“Are you here to buy something?”
“I am here to ask some questions.”
“Just a sec.”
Clicking locks turned and the door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman with big hair and lots of makeup who was wearing a sequined sweater that shimmered with various cat designs. It was a good thing Sirius was in the car.
“I was just closing up,” she said, doing a lot of talking with hands that also gestured for me to enter.
“If you don’t mind, I need to take a quick look inside the shop.”
My request surprised the woman, but she shrugged and then did another operatic sweep of her arms. The space I entered was barely boutique-size, and my eyeball inventory didn’t take long. Most of the wares had a religious bent, but not all. There were several boxes of chocolates on display, as well as two loaves of pumpkin bread, but what most captured my attention was a shelf of knitted goods. I went for a closer look and pushed aside the hats and mittens in favor of a pair of pink bootees. The image of Rose in her bootees came to mind, even though I wished it hadn’t.
The cat woman offered up some history regarding the bootees I was holding. “Sister Mary Ruth does most of the knitting. She’s almost ninety, but she’s a terror with her knitting needles.”
“I’ll try not to get on her bad side then,” I said, returning the bootees and looking at the speaker. “Do you work here?”
“Dottie Antonelli,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m a volunteer, but I’m here two or three days a week.”
“Is there a gift shop manager?”
Dottie shook her head. “There’s a committee of volunteers that helps the nuns. Somehow everything works.”
I handed Dottie my card; her eyelids, heavy with makeup, managed to widen some. “I guess you’re not here about parking tickets.”
“Guilty conscience?”
“Always,” she said, wagging a good-natured finger at me.
“I’m hoping I can talk with whoever might have waited on a woman that I believe was shopping here one day last week.”
“You’re talking about seven or eight volunteers that might have been working,” Dottie said, “and that doesn’t include the nuns.”
“Nuns work in the gift shop?”
“Why do you ask? Guilty conscience?”
“You know anyone with a Catholic upbringing who doesn’t have one?”
I got a smile and another finger wagging, but her fire-engine red nails sort of vitiated the tsk-tsk effect. “When we’re busy, one or two of the sisters sometimes come out to help.”
“Is there any way you can round up some of those sisters that might have been working in here last week?”
“You mean now?” she asked and then shook her head. “T
his isn’t a good time. The sisters are at Vespers. What you need to do is make an appointment with the prioress to talk with them.”
“Is she here?”
“She’s almost always here. This is a cloistered monastery. That means the nuns pretty much stay put behind these walls.”
“So, can I talk with her?”
“You’d be interrupting her. She’s working.”
“Working?”
“Don’t sound surprised. Nuns don’t like to be distracted from their work.”
“Making the pumpkin bread?”
Dottie laughed. “That’s more of a sideline. Their full-time work is praying.”
“They pray full-time?”
My incredulity got me a Jersey girl retort. “I find it hard enough to do it part-time. What about you?”
“You have a point.”
“It’s almost twenty-four/seven for the nuns,” she said. “They live a life of enclosure so that they can dedicate themselves completely to prayer. You’d think if you withdrew from the world you wouldn’t give two hoots about it, but they spend all their time praying for it.”
“They’ve taken on a big job.”
“You’re telling me. I don’t let anything get in the way of me and my eight hours, but the nuns even give up their sleep for prayer. They take turns getting up during the night to do their adoration and keep vigil with Jesus.”
“I am sure he appreciates their company.”
Dottie regarded me suspiciously, but I must have passed muster because she chose not to upbraid me.
I asked, “How many nuns are there here?”
“Fewer and fewer,” she said. “Nowadays there are around twenty, and most of them are as old as the hills. There certainly aren’t enough for all the praying that’s needed.”
I remembered a line I had once heard: “Too many sneezers, and not enough Gesundheiters.”
“You can say that again.”
I started thinking aloud. “I need to find out if anyone worked in the last week and waited on a woman that bought some pumpkin bread, as well as two pairs of bootees, one pink and the other blue. I suspect this woman was pregnant, but it’s possible she wasn’t showing.”
