by Alan Russell
“We were delivered from that fire.”
“What happened was a fluke of nature, a confluence of unrelated events that allowed for our escape.”
“I don’t think you believe that.”
“Suit yourself.”
“We made it to Neverland together, and our triumvirate is secret sharers of what occurred.”
“Are you having a jailhouse conversion? I always find it amazing how cons get that old-time religion, especially while sitting on death row. Did you have a vision from Saint Quentin himself?”
“I have not had such a conversion, and besides, this prison was not named after Saint Quentin.”
“Then who was it named after?”
“A Miwok warrior named Quintin.”
“How did an Indian warrior became a saint?”
“He didn’t. Sainthood was added when the people of Quintin jumped on the saint bandwagon, wanting to name their city after a saint like San Francisco, San Mateo, or San Jose. I don’t think Quintin would have approved of his posthumous title. While alive, he supposedly refused to convert to Christianity. I find that story much more interesting than the usual tripe attributed to the other Saint Quentin, except the accounts of his torture and beheading. Those are always interesting.”
“Speaking of the usual tripe, should I be contacting your lawyer? Your finding Jesus might fly better than your seasonal affective disorder murderer ploy.”
“Jesus is not what I have found, but I do believe I was delivered from death because my work here is not finished.”
“What work? You are a fucking serial murderer. Oh, excuse me: seasonal murderer.”
Haines only smiled. “You’ll see. It’s only a matter of time before I am delivered from this prison.”
“That’s only going to happen when they wheel you away with a body tag on your toe.”
“Judging by your cuts and bruises, I think you’re the one that should be more concerned about that tag hanging from your toe.”
“Shall I tell the Feds that you’re expecting God to deliver you out of here?”
“Who said anything about God?”
“I need a shower. You want to answer some more of my questions so I won’t feel this visit was a waste of time?”
“You know it was anything but a waste. We’re finally learning how to be honest with one another.”
“If that’s the case, I can see the merits of being dishonest.”
“You’re already well acquainted with such merits. Do you worry that you damned yourself to perdition by lying after you were sworn in at the trial and offered your testimony?”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You never read me my rights, but you said you did.”
“You’re wrong.”
What I was saying was another lie. I knew all too well that I had neglected to inform him of his rights on the day of his capture.
“If you say so,” he said.
“I say so.”
Because I wanted to make sure Haines was convicted, I had told several lies on the witness stand, something I hadn’t done before or since. Haines’s sworn version of his capture was the truth, but the jury had thought he was the liar. They hadn’t believed that I had threatened to murder him, and that I had come close to doing so more than once, because I had denied doing any such thing.
“Are we done here?”
“Not quite yet,” he said. “You said the man directing your attack had tattoos. Can you describe them? Or better yet, can you draw them?”
“Why are you interested?”
“Humor me.”
I thought for a few moments and then took a pen to my piece of paper. “One of the tattoos looked like a red A,” I said, “or an inverted V with a line running well beyond the edges. The red figure stood out because it was surrounded by a circle of black.”
The Weatherman nodded and said, “Typical poseur. That red A is a symbol for anarchy. But what self-respecting anarchist would advertise in such a way?”
I was busy trying to draw the other tattoo, but wasn’t having the success that Detective Nguyen had. “There were a lot of squiggles in the second tattoo,” I said. “They were coming out of an eye, or a circle.”
Haines looked at my drawing, gave it some thought, and then extended his hand and asked, “May I?”
I gave him my pen, although that went against prison rules. He changed my design, making my lines look more like elongated Zs, and asked, “Did it look more like that?”
When I nodded he said, “Black sun.”
“What’s a black sun?”
“There are old and new meanings. In ancient times it meant one thing, but the Nazis made it something else. Today it’s usually viewed as an antisun, or burned-out sun. Some think of it as a black hole.”
“So it’s more of your chaos?”
“Not mine; the world’s chaos.”
“My visits with you are always so uplifting.”
“I feel the same way. Same time and same place next month? We have so much yet to talk about.”
I called for the CO, and from outside our cage he put out a call on his walkie-talkie to summon the rest of Haines’s escort.
While we waited Haines said, “I am glad you survived the attack. You should know that I will put the word out that you are to be unharmed.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
“It’s not a favor. When you die, I want it to be by my hand.”
“Great minds think alike. When your judgment day comes, when the death juice is flowing into your veins, I’ll be the guy waving bye-bye to you.”
Haines’s entourage showed up. He backed up to the door and extended his hands through the slot so that his hardware could be reattached. While he was being cuffed, he faced me with a taunting smile.
“Detective?” he said.
“What?”
“Under current circumstances, it is difficult for me to practice my vocation in a professional manner. I have no access to a computer and I’m even denied such rudimentary essentials as a thermometer or barometer, not to mention a weather meter or wind speed meter, but despite all of those limitations I try and keep up with our state’s weather patterns. Necessity being the mother of invention, I have managed to find ways of perpetuating my craft even from the confines of my cage.”
“Is there a point to all of this?”
“If not a point, there is at least a weather forecast. Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.”
“Thanks so much for that rhyme. I’ll be sure to keep my yacht in the harbor tomorrow.”
“A Santa Ana condition is forming in the Los Angeles area, Detective. I can feel it stirring in my gut. Strong, dry winds are coming. They’ll start tomorrow, but just wait until the day after tomorrow. That’s when you’ll really feel those killer winds blow.”
He paused, perhaps remembering his days as a television weatherman and the need for occasional dramatic effect. “That’s when all hell will break loose, Detective.”
CHAPTER 15:
SO SOON DONE, WHY WERE YOU BEGUN?
The Weatherman’s forecast kept intruding into my thoughts on the flight back to LA. When I landed at LAX at one forty-five, it felt as if I’d been away for a week instead of a very long morning. The day promised to get a lot longer. I had an afternoon funeral to attend.
Seth is always happy to look after Sirius, but I never like imposing longer than necessary. Besides, I wanted company for the drive, so I swung by Sherman Oaks and picked Sirius up. At least I wouldn’t have to change for the funeral. I was already wearing a dark blazer and gray pants.
I called Seth’s cell number, but he didn’t pick up. Maybe he was on a spirit quest, but it was more likely he was at a client’s house. I left a message telling him not to be worried when he found his charge missing. When I opened Seth’s gate to the backyard, Sirius gave me a hero’s welcome.
“Just what I needed,” I said, “a dog-hair coat.”
Methinks I protest too much.
I had welcomed him into my arms; his hairs had followed. I stopped inside my house to grab my electric razor, and then the two of us set out on our road trip. The hoped-for smooth sailing didn’t materialize, as the 134 was already tight with commuters. In LA, all roads lead to gridlock. When the 134 merged with I-210, it wasn’t quite a parking lot but the traffic was moving slowly enough for me to leisurely shave. One highway patrol officer I know describes the LA morning commute as the “cosmetics interchange.” MPG doesn’t stand for miles per gallon, he says, but makeup per gallon. The afternoon commute isn’t any better, but beautifying isn’t the concern—everyone just wants to get the hell out of Dodge.
Traffic opened up once I passed Glendale, and I kept a heavy foot on the accelerator. The Eleventh Commandment among law enforcement is “Thou shalt not give a ticket to a fellow cop,” which means that if you have a badge, you can speed with impunity whenever pressed for time. However, getting stopped for speeding isn’t a pleasant experience even if you are a cop; you escape the ticket but not the aggrieved sighs that come with wasting another officer’s time. Because of that, I was about as watchful as your average speeder and spent as much time watching out for CHP as I did the road.
I traveled along a route made famous by the Jack Benny Program. Benny’s series aired before my time, but my father used to always laugh whenever repeating the route called out by the show’s train conductor: “Anaheim, Azusa, Cuuuuu-ca-mon-gaaaa.” In reality there was never such a train route, but the cities are real enough. Apparently, no matter what the situation at the depot, Cucamonga was the punch line. My father said that sometimes a whole skit would take place between conductors announcing Cuca and concluding with monga. Many years after the show last aired, my father was still laughing about Cuuuuu-ca-mon-gaaaa, and because his funny bone was tickled, so was mine.
Seeing the turnoff sign to Rancho Cucamonga, I remembered my father and said, “Cuuuuu-ca-mon-gaaaa.” Sirius seemed to find that amusing and encouraged me with some tail wagging. “Cuuuuu-ca-mon-gaaaa,” I said again, stretching out the word for about half a minute.
Sirius tried working me to do another encore, but with Hollywood sincerity I said, “No, really, I can’t.” My father had been dead for a dozen years, but I was still getting a kick out of the punch line that had brought him such pleasure. Of course Jack Benny and my father probably wouldn’t have even recognized Rancho Cucamonga in its present incarnation. It had been known for its orange groves for much of the twentieth century, but that was before the Los Angeles borders spread north, south, and east. Now I was willing to bet there wasn’t a single citrus grove left in town. The former sleepy hamlet was now approaching big city status and had a population of more than a hundred sixty thousand and counting.
Thinking about my adoptive father made for a pleasant trip down memory lane. Those that didn’t know better always assumed I was my father’s biological son, and whenever anyone commented on our resemblance, my dad always gave me a big wink. Being raised by a loving family had helped me all but forget that I’d been abandoned by my biological mother, but today wasn’t one of those days that I could forget.
The death of Rose and her impending burial made me remember the story of a grieving father who had put a philosophical epitaph on his infant daughter’s tombstone: “So soon done for, what was I begun for?” I didn’t have an answer to that question and doubted that I ever would, but I believed society owed a debt to Rose and it was my job to see it paid in full.
The southern California desert can be a cold, windy place in the winter, but the weather was cooperating for Rose’s burial. The sun was shining when I arrived at the small town of Calimesa. The Desert Lawn Cemetery is only a short distance from I-10; the dead apparently aren’t bothered by the nonstop traffic.
Most of the cemetery’s expanse is out in the back, but the Garden of Angels has its own separate plot located in the front. As I went down the driveway, I looked over at the final resting spot for so many abandoned children. There were rows of close-set crosses—about eighty in total. The proximity of the grave markers reminded me of how the headstones of some family plots are situated close together, and I couldn’t help but think that these little ones abandoned at birth had finally found a family.
There were already a number of people milling around the Garden of Angels waiting for the service to begin. Through word of mouth and an obituary notice that Lisbet always put in the local papers, there was usually a good turnout at the funerals. The way these newborns were abandoned tears at the moral fabric of our world; those that come out and show they care give me hope that all is not lost.
I parked out back and reached for one of the spare leashes I keep in the car. “Let’s go,” I said.
We made a stop at a willow tree that was well away from any grave marker, but I still made sure the coast was clear before giving Sirius the okay to relieve himself. Afterward, the two of us walked up the driveway and then started up the rose garden path that led to the Garden of Angels. For most of the year the roses are in full bloom, but this was winter and the flowers were scarce. There were some buds, though, that offered the hope of spring.
Sirius stopped to smell the buds, and it crossed my mind that we would soon be planting a Rose.
In the front of the garden was a statue of three happy children; one of the boys was fishing. Since the last time I had visited the boy still hadn’t landed a fish, but that didn’t seem to diminish his happiness. We continued up the path, where we encountered more statues, figurines, memorials, and markers: a little girl holding up a basket to gather flowers, flying cherubs, biblical passages offering comfort. I paused to read the words from Jeremiah 1:5: “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you; before you were born, I set you apart.”
I moved on to the memorial bricks. Some of the bricks displayed engraved names of companies, colleges, and hospitals, but most bore the names of individuals. There were inscribed messages on some of the bricks; one said “Lullaby & Goodnight.” On the ride over I had thought of my father, but now I remembered my mother and Brahms. I wondered how many others heard the voice of their mother when hearing the music of Brahms’s “Lullaby.” Mental note to self: Call Mom.
Usually I don’t spend my time looking back. Like most men, I think that introspection is a luxury I can’t—or I’m afraid to—allow myself. For whatever reasons, Rose’s funeral had opened lots of windows to the past. My parents had thought themselves blessed to finally have a child. There were other people out there waiting for a baby like Rose to come into their lives.
Blinking hard at the past and present, I moved on to another brick. The inscribed message was a plea to the dead: “Babies Forgive Us.” I almost commented to Sirius that I was glad I wasn’t in the forgiveness business, but other people were now in hearing range.
Footsteps approached and a familiar-looking couple greeted me. The man extended his hand and offered his name, and I remembered that we had met at baby Moses’s funeral. No one forgets you when you come and pay respects with your dog. The couple did their best to not stare at my face. This time it wasn’t my scar drawing interest as much as the bruises and cuts from the night before. They were too polite to inquire but too curious not to look.
“Good to see you again, Detective,” he said.
The man’s wife didn’t forget Sirius, offering her hand for him to sniff. “And good to see you, too,” she said.
More people followed behind the couple, and it felt as if Sirius and I were suddenly the objects of a reception line. A lot of eyes studiously ignored the state of my face and neck. The regulars felt the need to make friendly reintroductions, and Sirius wagged his tail as if he remembered each and every mourner; maybe he did.
In the midst of all the shaking and wagging, I caught sight of Lisbet. She flashed me a smile before returning to more last-minute demands on her time. Lisbet was wearing a dark outfit, but pinned to her blouse was a bright red rose.
The notes from a flute called all of us to gather,
the music playing over the freeway noise. The same flutist had also played at the last funeral. Sirius and I took up positions on the outskirts of the garden, and my eyes drifted over to all of the gravestone crosses that were already in place. A number of items had been left atop and around the crosses. There were religious objects to be sure—crucifixes and Saint Christopher medals—but most of the remembrances were kid things like toy cars, superhero necklaces, stuffed animals, and dolls.
I studied the names on the crosses. There appeared to be about an equal number of boys and girls buried. In the middle of the plot was a large tree; the last funeral I’d attended had occurred on a hot desert day and I remembered how that tree had provided needed shelter. The shade wasn’t necessary today, but the shadows of the tree seemed to be reaching out to offer a group hug.
A clergywoman stepped forward to give the eulogy. You wouldn’t think there would be much to say about Rose. There wasn’t much entered in her murder book other than pictures from the crime scene, my notes, and the coroner’s identification card, which showed two baby feet and ten perfect little toes. A coroner’s ID card isn’t the kind of memento that should be in a baby’s scrapbook. Luckily, I wasn’t giving the eulogy. My emphasis would have been on the death of baby Rose, but the clergywoman was somehow able to make it about her life. She built on the scant hours that Rose had lived, and personalized her. The death of an innocent, we heard, was a sacrifice from which all of us should learn. The clergywoman quoted from Matthew, saying how we had to become like little children in order to enter the kingdom of heaven. According to her, that was where Rose already was. I hoped she was right. In the meantime, I’d be working the case on planet earth.
When the minister finished talking, a man stepped forward and opened a birdcage. It took a little prompting for the three white doves inside to realize that the prison doors were open. When the birds flew out, they circled above the garden and for a few moments appeared unsure of which way to go, but then all three of them set off east in the direction of distant mountains. The doves had the good sense to be flying away from LA.
