Woman #1 wrote in 1968. She said her ex worked with Jean at the Packard-Bell plant. He had affairs with Jean and two other Packard-Bell women. He acted suspicious after the killing. Woman #1 asked him where he was that night. He hit her and told her to shut up.
Woman #2 wrote in 1970. She said her ex had a grudge against Jean Ellroy. Jean refused to process an injury claim he submitted. It sent him “off the deep end.” Woman #2 included a postscript: Her ex torched a furniture store. They repossessed a dinette set he bought and sent him “off the deep end” again.
Both letters read vindictive. John Lawton attached a memo slip to letter #2. It said both tips were checked out and judged invalid.
I zigzagged through the book. I caught little blips of data.
Harvey Glatman was questioned and cleared as a suspect. I remembered the day he went to the gas chamber. A Desert Inn witness disputed the Mexican bit. She said the guy with the blonde and the redhead was a “Swarthy White Man.” My mother worked at Airtek Dynamics from 9/56 on. I thought she was still at Packard-Bell then. The autopsy report noted semen in my mother’s vagina. There was no mention of internal bruising or vaginal abrasions. There was no speculation on rape versus consensual sex. My mother was menstruating. The autopsy surgeon found a tampon in her vagina.
Facts hit me rapid-fire. I knew I had to contain the barrage. I got out my pen and notebook and flipped to the transcribed statements. The first one blew me out the fucking door.
Lavonne Chambers hopped cars at Stan’s Drive-In—five blocks from the Desert Inn. She served my mother and her male companion twice that Saturday night and Sunday morning.
She said the man was Greek or Italian. He was driving a two-tone ’55 or ’56 Olds. He brought my mother in around 10:20 p.m. They ate in the car. They talked. They left and returned at 2:15 a.m.
The man was quiet and sullen. My mother was “quite high.” She “chatted gaily.” The top of her dress was down and one breast was half-exposed. She looked “slightly disheveled.” The man “acted bored with her.”
It was hot new information. It blew my old theory to hell.
I thought my mother left the bar with the Swarthy Man and the Blonde. They tried to force her into a three- way. She resisted. It went way bad.
He was “bored.” She was “disheveled.” He probably fucked her and wanted to dump her. She wanted more of his time.
I used to frequent the Stan’s Drive-in across from Hollywood High. The carhops wore red-and-gold outfits. The “Krazy Dog” was great. The burgers and fried chicken were famous.
I read the statement three times. I wrote down the key facts. I braced myself and opened the first envelope.
It contained three snapshots. I saw Ed and Leoda Wagner, circa 1950. I saw my father at age 45 or 46. The photos were marked “Vic’s sist. & husb.” and “Vic’s ex-husb.” My father looked fit and handsome.
The third photo was marked “Vic, August ’57.”
She was wearing a white dress. I remembered it. She was holding a drink and a cigarette. Her hair was up—the way she always wore it. People were frolicking behind her. It looked like a company picnic.
She looked bad. Her face was haggard and puffy. She looked older than 42 years and 4 months. She looked like a drunk putting up a losing front. The picture was inimical to the picture I held in my mind.
That picture was all wish fulfillment. I freeze-framed my mother at a lusty 40. The lines on her face displayed strength— not dissipation. That picture was all buried yearning. I succumbed to that picture and made love to her those few precious fantasy times.
I opened the second envelope. I saw two Identi-Kit portraits of the Swarthy Man. Portrait #1 showed a skinny Joe Blow. Portrait #2 showed a sadist with similar features.
I opened the third envelope. It contained 32 male mug shots. The men were registered sex offenders. Some were white and some were Latin. They all resembled the Identi-Kit portraits.
They were questioned and cleared. They all had that flashbulb-blind sleazy pervert look. They wore neckboards from previous sex rousts. The boards listed their arrest dates and various penal code numbers. The dates covered ’39 to ’57. The numbers covered rape and sex mayhem and a half-dozen passive offenses. Most of the men were unkempt. A few of them were wincing like they just got hit with a phone book. Their collective vibe was repellent. They looked like a venereal smear or a come stain on a shithouse wall.
I opened the last envelope. I saw my mother dead at Arroyo High School.
Her cheeks were bloated. Her features had thickened. She looked like a sick woman sleeping.
I saw the sash cord and stocking cinched around her neck. I saw the insect bites on her arms. I saw the dress she had on. I remembered it. I looked at the black & white photos and remembered that the dress was light and dark blue.
The dress was below-the-knee length. Someone pulled it above her hips. I saw her pubic hair. I looked away fast and made it a blur.
The last picture was an autopsy shot. My mother was prone on a morgue slab. Her head was propped up on a black rubber block.
I saw her deformed nipple and the dry blood on her lips. I saw a sutured abdominal incision. They probably cut her open at the crime scene. They probably took a liver reading before she turned dead cold.
I examined all the crime scene pictures. I memorized details. I felt perfectly calm. I put everything back in the folder and handed it to Stoner.
He walked me out to my car. We shook hands and said goodbye. Stoner was subdued. He knew I was someplace far off.
I went to bed early that night. I woke up way before dawn. I saw the pictures before I opened my eyes.
I felt a little gear click in place. It was like saying “Oh” to acknowledge a big revelation.
