My Dark Places

Now you know.

You thought you knew. You were wrong. Now you know for real. Now you go where she leads you.

They went back to Stan’s Drive-in. It was 2:15 a.m. He was bored. They just had sex. He wanted to ditch this desperate woman and get on with his life. The combustion occurred because she wanted MORE. More sex or more male attention. The promise of a next time with flowers and a ritzier venue.

I trusted my new theory. It made me feel this big wave of love for my mother.

I was her son. I was hooked on MORE as bad as she was. Gender bias and my time favored me. I got to drink and fuck with a sanction she never dreamed of. Luck and a coward’s circumspection saved me. I saw the road she went down. She force-fed me the survivor’s instinct she never developed herself. Her pain was greater than mine. It defined the gap between us.

I went back to Connecticut and wrote my piece for GQ. It wasn’t cathartic. It didn’t click that little gear off. She was always right there with me.

It was a clumsy embrace and a reunion. It was a reckless pass. It was a blind date that Helen and Bill Stoner set me up on.

Now you go where she leads you.

The concept confused me. I pledged my devotion on blind faith.

16

She pointed me toward her secrets. Her lead was a taunt and a dare. She challenged me to discover how she lived and died.

I decided to expand my GQ piece 50-fold and turn it into a book. My publisher bought the idea. Bill Stoner retired in April. I contacted him and made him an offer. I said I wanted to reinvestigate my mother’s homicide. I’d pay him a percentage of my book advance and cover all expenses. We would team up and attempt to find the Swarthy Man—dead or alive. I knew we were bucking stratospheric odds. I didn’t care. The redhead was my primary target.

Stoner said yes.

The GQ piece was published in August. It emphasized my mother and me and our shared lust for MORE. I turned in my novel and rented an apartment in Newport Beach, California. Stoner said our job could run a year or more.

I flew out on Labor Day. The people on my flight were talking O. J. Simpson nonstop.

The case was three months old. It was the premier woman killing of all time already. The Black Dahlia case was big and quintessentially L.A. The Simpson case eclipsed it fast. It was huge. It was epic performance art. It was a disingenuously staged multimedia circus based on the shaky premise of a botched hack-and-run job. Everybody knew OJ. did it. Pundits riffed off that consensus and went nuts looking for hidden truth and empirical precedents. Media hacks hit the truth harder. They saw the OJ. job as a crass microcosm. It was cocaine and tit jobs. It was health club narcissism and the two-way bondage of five-figure monthly alimony payments. The bottom- level audience defined the crime. They wanted O.J.’s meretricious lifestyle. They couldn’t have it. They settled for a skanky morality play that told them that lifestyle was venal.

OJ. and the Swarthy Man. Nicole and Geneva.

My mother was a very private woman. I was a showboat and a seasoned opportunist. I always craved attention. My instincts said she never did. I wanted to give her to the world. You could call me a memory rapist and point to my previous exploits to prove it.

You’d be right. You’d be wrong. I’d cop a plea behind my newfound passion.

She was dead. She was insensate. It was ridiculous to wonder if she’d understand or not. I had a crass show- and-tell side. She was the heart of my story.

The issue troubled me. I respected her privacy and was setting out to destroy it. I saw only one way out.

I had to submit to her spirit. If I hurt her, I’d feel her censure.

Stoner met me at the airport. We drove straight to Arroyo High School.

It was my second visit. A film crew shot me here once. I breezed through the interview. I hadn’t seen the pictures. I couldn’t point to the exact spot and place my mother there.

Stoner parked near the spot. It was hot and humid. He turned on the air conditioning and rolled up the windows.

He said we had to talk about my mother. We had to talk truthfully and bluntly. I told him I could handle it. He said he wanted to reconstruct the crime the way he thought it happened.

I mentioned my new theory. Stoner said he didn’t buy it.

He said the Swarthy Man wanted some pussy. Jean was menstruating and refused to give it up. They were necking and fondling. The Swarthy Man wanted more. Jean wanted to cool him down. She said, Let’s go back to Stan’s Drive-in.

They drove back to Stan’s. Lavonne Chambers served them again. Jean was half-drunk and lighthearted. The Swarthy Man was horny and pissed off at her. He knew this secluded road by Arroyo High School.

They finished their snack. The Swarthy Man suggested a drive. Jean said okay. The Swarthy Man drove her straight here and demanded some cunt.

Jean said no. A verbal fight ensued. The Swarthy Man hit Jean in the head five or six times. He used his fists or a small metal tool he had in the car.

Jean went unconscious. The Swarthy Man raped her. Lubrication explained the absence of vaginal abrasions. They necked and fondled a while back. Jean got turned on. She was still wet. The Swarthy Man made a smooth penetration. The rape itself was clumsy and frenzied. The coroner found a tampon at the rear of Jean’s vagina. The