“What do you mean?”
She licked her lips. “When I examined her, her vaginal area was raw, and she had body lice and old scars- fibrosed lesions. Those are things you expect in a street person. But then I did a pelvic and couldn’t believe what I found. Her hymen was intact. She was still a virgin. Women on the street get used in the worst ways imaginable. Erna was a big woman, but a violent man- a group of men- could’ve subdued her. I find the fact that she was never entered remarkable.”
Unless her companion had no interest in heterosexual intercourse.
“Her genital area was raw,” I said. “She could’ve been assaulted without being penetrated.”
“No,” she said, “this was more like poor hygiene. There were no lacerations, no trauma of any sort. And she didn’t get upset when I checked her out. Just the opposite. Stoic. As if she was totally cut off from that part of her.”
I said, “When she was lucid- refined- what did she talk about?”
“The first time she was here I got her to talk about things she liked, and she started going on about art. How it was the best thing in the world. How artists were gods. She could name painters- French, Flemish, artists I’ve never heard of. For all I know, she made them up. But they sounded authentic.”
“Did she ever mention friends or family?”
“I tried to ask her about her parents, where she was from, where she went to school. She didn’t want to talk about that. The only thing she admitted to was a cousin. A really smart cousin. He liked art, too. She seemed to be proud of that. But that’s all she’d say about him.”
“Him,” I said. “A male cousin.”
“That’s my recollection.” She shook her head. “It’s been a while. You said someone she trusted might’ve abused her. There really is a cousin? I assumed it was all delusion.”
“I haven’t heard of one,” I said. “The police are thinking she might’ve been lured by someone she knew. When did her two visits take place?”
She consulted the chart. Erna Murphy’s first drop-in had been five months ago. The second had taken place on a Thursday, two days before Baby Boy’s murder.
“The cousin,” she said. “She talked about him as if she was really impressed. If I’d known…”
“No reason to know.”
“Spoken like a true psychologist. When I was in med school I dated a psychologist.”
“Nice guy?”
“Terrible guy.” She suppressed a yawn. “Ex
“Kissing cousin,” said Milo, by cell phone.
“Nothing beyond kissing.” I gave him the results of Erna Murphy’s pelvic exam.
“Last virgin in Hollywood. If it wasn’t so pathetic…” He was on his cell, calling from the car, reception fading in and out.
“More like virgin sacrifice,” I said. “She was used and discarded.”
“Used for what?”
“Good question.”
“Theorize.”
“Adoration, submissiveness- listening to his fantasies. Running chores- as in scoping out murder scenes and reporting back. An asexual relationship is consistent with Kevin’s being gay. The interest in art drew them together. Maybe she called him her cousin because he represented her surrogate family. She refused to say a word about her real family.”
“Or,” he said, “Kevin’s really her cousin.”
“That, too,” I said. “Red hair, just like his mother.” I laughed.
“Hey, sometimes it helps not to be too brilliant.”
“How would you know?” I said.
“Pshaw. No luck on Erna’s folks, yet. Stahl’s working with the military. But guess what: Kevin’s Honda showed up. Inglewood PD tow yard. Parked illegally, it got hauled in two days ago.”
“Inglewood,” I said. “Near the airport?”
“Not far. I’m heading there as we speak. Gonna flash Kevin’s picture at the airline desks, see if anyone remembers him.”
“You’re canvassing LAX by yourself?”
“No, me and my baby Ds, but it’s still a needle in the proverbial you-know-what. The Honda’s being transferred to our motor lab, but it’s been pawed over pretty thoroughly. What finding it does, though, is firm up Kev as our bad boy. He did bad things, found out we were asking about him, cut town. There were no trophies in his pad because he took them.” His voice was engulfed by static. “… any ideas about which airline to start with?”
“Check with Passport Control and eliminate foreign flights.”
“My first stop,” he said, “not that it’s gonna be a snap, those guys love paperwork. Let’s assume domestic, though. Where would you begin?”
“Why not Boston?” I said. “He’s been there before. Enjoyed the ballet.”
33
Eric Stahl spent two days dealing with the various branches of the United States armed forces. Thousands of Donald Murphys in the Social Security files. Military service would winnow it down, but Pentagon pencil pushers weren’t spitting out the information without putting him through the usual.
The fact that he knew the sublanguage made it a little easier.
How he felt about the military was another thing.
He’d started with Erna’s mother, first, because Colette was a less common name. One hundred eighteen SSI records with forty-three fitting the approximate age range. He began with the Western states, came up empty. Wondering all the while if this chasing down Erna was fruitless, even if he found her family.
Even so; he’d do what he was told.
He worked his way east, found a Colette Murphy in Saint Louis whose evasive tone and repeated denials made him wonder. From her accent Stahl guessed a black woman. He didn’t ask. You didn’t do that anymore.
The Army had taught him racial sensitivity. As in treat the Saudis like gods and smile as they shit on you.
He traced Saint Louis Colette with her local police, found out she had a record for petty larceny- which explained the caginess- and that she’d never been married to any Donald.
At 8:30 P.M. he reached a Colette Murphy in Brooklyn.
Eleven-thirty, her time. She said, “You woke me up.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Not expecting much, Stahl gave her the line- tracing Donald on a routine investigation, no mention of Erna’s name.
She said, “Christ, at this hour? That’s not me, it’s my sister-in-law. My husband’s brother married her, and they had a crazy kid. I’m Colette, and Donald finds himself a Colette, too. Weird, right? Not that it’s any great shakes being in this family. They’re both bums. My Ed and his brother.”
“Donald?”
“Who else.”
“Where’s your sister-in-law?”
“Six feet under,” said Brooklyn Colette.
“Where’s Donald?”
“Who knows, who cares?”
“Not a nice guy.”
“A bum,” she said. “Like Ed.”
