I stared at the corkboard. I bought another board and placed the two together. I tacked up all the Long and Ellroy crime scene shots in contrasting order. I memorized the points of resemblance and the points of departure.
Two ligatures on Jean. One ligature on Bobbie. The purse by the barbed-wire fence. The ivy thicket and the dirt road by the water-pump station. The two overcoats identically discarded.
My mother looked her age and then some. Bobbie Long looked younger than hers. Jim Boss Bennett looked too countrified to be the Swarthy Man.
I studied the Long file. I studied the Ellroy file. I read the Long and Ellroy Blue Books and all the reports and note slips in both folders. I stared at my wall display. I wanted to de-eroticize my mother and get used to seeing her dead. I put the two cases together and built chronologies and narrative lines from odd bits of data.
My mother left the house between 8:00 and 8:30. She was seen at the Manger Bar “between 8:00 and 9:00.” She was alone. The Manger Bar was near the Desert Inn and Stan’s Drive-in. My mother and the Swarthy Man arrived at Stan’s some time after 10:00. Lavonne Chambers served them. They left Stan’s. They arrived at the Desert Inn some time after 10:30. The Blonde Woman arrived with them. Michael Whittaker crashed the party. Margie Trawick observed the group. She left the Desert Inn at 11:30. My mother, the Swarthy Man, the Blonde and Mike Whittaker were still seated together. My mother, the Swarthy Man and the Blonde left around midnight. A waitress named Myrtle Mawby saw my mother and the Swarthy Man at the Desert Inn around 2:00 a.m. They left. They arrived at Stan’s Drive-in around 2:15. Lavonne Chambers served them again. They drove off around 2:40. My mother’s body was discovered at 10:10 a.m. Her car was found behind the Desert Inn.
That was all witness-verified gospel. The chronological gaps formed theoretical vacuums. The Bobbie Long chronology was simple. Bobbie went to Santa Anita Racetrack. Her body was found in La Puente—eight miles southeast.
She met a man at the track. He fed her, fucked her and killed her. It was non-witness-verified gospel. I believed it. Stoner believed it. We couldn’t prove it. The cops operated on that premise back in ’59. It was indisputable today. My mother’s last night alive defied strict interpretation.
She left the house in her car. She was at the Manger Bar alone. She met the Swarthy Man somewhere. She dropped her car off somewhere and got into his car. Lavonne Chambers served them in his car. They left Stan’s Drive-in. They went to the Desert Inn. They picked up the Blonde en route. They went back to Stan’s in his car. Her car was found behind the Desert Inn.
She could have met the Swarthy Man at his pad. She could have met him at a cocktail lounge. She could have left her car at either location. They went to Stan’s in his car. She could have picked up her car right after. He could have picked up the Blonde. She could have picked up the Blonde. They could have met the Blonde outside the Desert Inn. They parried at the Desert Inn. They left together. They could have gone somewhere as a group. The Blonde could have gone off alone. My mother and the Swarthy Man could have kissed and fondled in his car or her car behind the Desert Inn. They could have gone to his pad. They could have kissed and fondled in the Desert Inn parking lot before that 2:00 a.m. nightcap. She could have turned off the sex in his car or her car. She could have shut him down at his pad. They could have gone to the Blonde’s pad. She could have shut him down there. They went back to the Desert Inn. They could have gone back from the Blonde’s place or the Swarthy Man’s place or another cocktail lounge or any dark street in the San Gabriel Valley. My mother could have left her car at the Blonde’s place or the Swarthy Man’s place. She could have left it at either location during any one of the reconstructive time gaps in the evening. The Swarthy Man could have retrieved the car after he killed her. He could have dumped it in the Desert Inn parking lot at 3:00 or 4:00 a.m. The Blonde could have dumped it. They could have run a two-car convoy. They could have split the scene in the Blonde’s car or the Swarthy Man’s car.
It’s 2:40 a.m. My mother and the Swarthy Man split Stan’s Drive-in. Her car is parked behind the Desert Inn or parked somewhere else. He’s bored and sullen. She’s half-drunk and chatty. They go to his place or the Blonde’s place or Arroyo High School or
Maybe it’s rape. Maybe it’s sex by consent. Maybe Stoner’s reconstruction was valid. Maybe my MORE theory hit some factual chords. Maybe my mother balked at a three-way at some point in the evening. Maybe the Swarthy Man decided to coerce some solo action. Maybe Lavonne Chambers and Margie Trawick got their times wrong and fucked up the means to establish any kind of accurate time line. Maybe Myrtle Mawby got her time wrong. Maybe my mother and the Swarthy Man left the Desert Inn with the Blonde and did not return for that 2:00 a.m. nightcap. You had a killer and a victim. You had an unidentified woman. You had three female witnesses and a drunken male witness. You had a seven-hour time span and a geographically localized series of prosaic events that resulted in murder. You could extrapolate off the established facts and interpret the prelude in an infinite number of ways.
She might have met the Swarthy Man and the Blonde that night. She might have met them on some previous honky-tonk jaunt. She might have met them separately. The Blonde might have set her up with the Swarthy Man. The Blonde might be an old friend. The Blonde might have urged her to move out to El Monte. The Swarthy Man might be an old lover back for more.
He might be a former Packard-Bell or Airtek employee. He might be an old barroom flame passing through. He might have killed Bobbie Long seven months after he killed my mother.
There was no telephone at 756 Maple. The cops couldn’t check my mother’s toll calls. She might have called the Blonde or the Swarthy Man that evening or some time in the four months she lived in El Monte. Every call outside El Monte proper would register on her phone bills. The Blonde might have lived in Baldwin Park or West Covina. The Swarthy Man might have lived in Temple City. The cops never found my mother’s purse. The cops didn’t find an address book at 756 Maple. It was probably in my mother’s purse. She carried her purse that night. The Swarthy Man got rid of the purse. His name might have been in the address book. The Blonde’s name might have been in it.
It was 1958. Most people had telephones. My mother didn’t. She was hiding out in El Monte.
I studied my mother’s file. I studied the Long file. I picked up strange facts and a wrenching omission.
My mother left an unfinished drink in the kitchen. Maybe the Blonde called her up and suggested some fun. Maybe our cramped little house closed in on her and forced her to bolt. Bobbie Long might have been a closet juicer. A cop found two bottles in her kitchen. I always thought my mother fought the man who killed her. I always thought the cops found bloody skin under her nails. The autopsy report stated nothing of the kind. It was my heroic embellishment. I cast my mother as a redheaded tigress and carried the image for 36 years.
Jean and Bobbie. Bobbie and Jean.
Two murder victims. Near-identical crime scenes a few miles apart. A strong consensus at Sheriff’s Homicide.
The guys thought one man killed both women.
