San Diego Noir

house keys and cell and headed out.

I couldn’t swallow. Guilt and shame percolated deeper with every footstep. My pulse pounded. Suicide? Why hadn’t I been more patient? Why couldn’t I have been more helpful? Hanging up on her when Caterina distracted me was a very human thing to do, but hiding behind the species is a cheap excuse.

I walked fast, a dyke on a mission, hardly noticing the Craftsman bungalows, Spanish-style stuccos, gay bars, and boutiques that filled the neighborhood.

Hillcrest used to be dominated by a huge Sears, Roebuck and Co. When chichi condo complexes, an art-film theater, and distinctive eateries squeezed out Sears, blue collars were replaced by lavender boxers. Promises of erotic satisfaction now hang in the Hillcrest air, like the pots of petunias and pansies swinging from summer lampposts.

While not as well known as the Castro or WeHo, Hillcrest received national media attention in ’97 as the home of Andrew Cunanan, the twisted serial killer who murdered Versace. Now Hillcrest was on TV again: a dead body, sirens and news crews, with Betty Lou Thomas headlining.

I turned east on University toward the Uptown Shopping Center near where Betty lived. I just missed the Walk signal at Vermont. Too fidgety to wait, I strode another block to Richmond to burn adrenaline.

At Richmond the front door of the Alibi, Hillcrest’s oldest neighborhood saloon, stood open revealing a murky interior behind the jukebox. Nothing much going on at this hour. The corner smelled of cigarettes; the sidewalk was confettied with butts.

I caught the light, crossed the street, closed the distance, and insinuated myself into the crowd. Betty’s body had landed atop fallen jacaranda blossoms, their soft periwinkle blue crushed and smeared into a bruise-colored shroud.

I squirmed through the scene, inching my way toward the officer in charge. “Why are you calling this a suicide?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m one of her closest friends. I spoke to her yesterday and she didn’t seem in the least bit suicidal. Not at all.”

Gently: “Sometimes it happens that way.”

“But it could’ve been an accident, right? She could’ve slipped and fallen?”

The officer—a slow-moving whelk of fiber, muscle, and taut uniform—studied me more carefully. “There’s a safety parapet around the perimeter of the roof. If someone slipped and fell, they’d slide into the wall.” Seeing I was not persuaded, he leaned down so he could speak directly in my ear. “We found Prozac in her medicine cabinet.”

“If you took a survey here,” I gestured toward the crowd of looky-loos, “you’d probably find 70 percent of them are pumping their serotonin. The rest are on Adderall and a pharmacopeia of other fine substances.”

Officer Whelk did not respond.

I persisted. “Did you find a suicide note?” If the police had, maybe it would explain what had provoked Betty to take such an extreme measure. And if there was a note, had she cited me as one of the provocations? I used to be able to talk to Nikki, but now she acts as if our friendship is of no importance.

“Not yet, but we’ve barely begun our investigation. Now, unless you’re a family member, please step back …”

I took a few snapshots with my cell and reluctantly started the trek home. In a strange state, I let feet and mind wander on the return route. I paused in front of a Thai restaurant to check the menu posted in the window. Choo-Chi Prawn. Chicken Volcano. Lard Prik. Was there a lesbian in Hillcrest who had ordered Lard Prik? Was there a gay man who had not?

I passed Milo’s Erotic Apparel and assessed their new window display. A reclining masked mannequin in a black leather bustier sat with one leg crossed over the bent knee of the other. A papier-mache cucumber dangled from a chain on the spike heel of her silver boot.

This was the Hillcrest Betty had fallen in love with. She’d spent many years in Indiana being neurotic, closeted, and lonely. Finally she’d found the courage to move two thousand miles away from everything and everyone she’d ever known. In San Diego she was like a child who’d run off to join the circus and Hillcrest was the center ring. Everything had been fresh, colorful, exotic—the palm trees, the sunshine, the Pride Parade, the sense that diversity was a good thing. Here, even vegetable bondage was acceptable.

Despite her habit of complaining, Betty seemed reasonably content most of the time. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the whole suicide concept. Yes, she suffered from mild depression, but it had been well controlled for years. Yes, she was single and sometimes lonely. But thousands of married people sit, equally lonely, in front of the TV every night and they don’t jump off the roof.

If I was going to find out what really happened, I couldn’t be encumbered by guilt. I began to strip it from my soul like so much old furniture varnish. If Betty had been depressed, she could’ve asked for support instead of complaining about laundry detergent. If she had given me any indication that our last conversation might be our last conversation, I would’ve paid more attention.

At Third and Robinson, I stopped in at Caterina’s scarf shop. The moment our eyes met, I knew she knew. “Now don’t blame yourself, darling,” she oozed. “Nothing you could’ve done.”

“I don’t know about that, but there’s something I can do now.”

“What do you mean?”

“The police are calling it suicide.”

“The woman jumped off her roof. What else would you call it?”

“The whole thing doesn’t smell right. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe she was pushed.”

Caterina draped a gold scarf decorated with black fleur-delis over a display. “Don’t you love what Burberry does with this new line?”