'What does that say about our society, Alex? A piece of shit like Shwandt can cut up women and kids, gouge their eyes out, shit on them, and get himself a supporting case of legal beagles, access to a law library, three squares, TV, magazines, nutritious snacks. I mean, let's cut through all the theology and ideology and tell me what reason can there possibly be to let someone like that
'No argument from me.'
'Does that mean you've finally converted?'
'To what?'
'The Church of Abject Hostility.'
'Depends on what day you catch me.'
He laughed and started his engine.
I said, 'Do you think there's really any chance of a new trial?'
'Who the hell knows? The goddamn press corps loves the slimy fuck. He feeds them like trained seals.'
I wondered how Lucy would react to the legal circus. Would she see it as diminishing what she'd done in that jury box?
Right now that seemed the least of her problems.
I called Woodbridge Hospital and used my title to cadge information from a nurse.
The patient was still sleeping. Dr. Embrey had not come in yet.
I tried to reach Peter Lowell. No answer.
Phoning my service, I discovered Dr. Wendy Embrey had left a message. My callback got her voice mail. I said I'd be happy to speak to her and returned to the Seville.
I couldn't rid myself of the thought that something had happened to Lucy that summer. Couldn't erase the idea of a little girl and a paroled killer thrown together. Heading north on Westwood Boulevard, I drove to Vagabond Books, parked in the back, and entered the store.
The owner was playing his sax. He looked up as I approached, not missing a note. Then he recognized me and said, 'Hey.'
The glass case of first editions fronting the register had something new in it, along with the books. Big silver automatic.
He saw me looking at it. 'There's a guy running around robbing used bookstores. Comes in just before closing time, pulls a gun, beats and sodomizes the clerk, and takes the cash. Kid over at Pepys Books is getting tested for AIDS.'
'God.'
He fingered his ponytail. 'So what can I do for you?'
'Terrence Trafficant.
He took the gun out, put it in his waistband, and stepped out from behind the counter. Ambling over to the rear of the store, he came back with a worn-looking paperback. Bright red cover, black title letters that resembled knife slashes.
Two cover blurbs:
'Doing some kind of psychology research?' he said, ringing up the sale. 'You couldn't be reading for pleasure. It's really a piece of crap.'
I opened the book. More raves from
'The critics didn't think so.'
'The critics are brainless sheep. Trust me, it's crap.'
'Well,' I said, paying him, 'you've got the gun.'
I got home at three, feeling antsy, yet tired. The ocean was green and silky. Putting the book on the coffee table, I went out, lay down on a lounge chair, caught a face full of ultraviolet, and fell asleep.
Robin kissed me awake.
'Someone on the phone for you.'
'What time is it?'
'Five-fifteen.'
'Must have dozed off.'
She wiped my forehead. 'You're really hot. Better watch that sun, honey.'
I took the call in the kitchen, rubbing my eyes and clearing my throat. 'Dr. Delaware.'
'Doctor, this is Audrey from Dr. Wendy Embrey's office. Dr. Embrey said to tell you she'd like to meet with you concerning Lucretia Lowell, if you've got the time. Would sometime tomorrow be okay?'
'Tonight would be okay, too.'
'Dr. Embrey's all over the place tonight- she attends at a bunch of different hospitals. How about tomorrow around lunchtime?'
'Sure. Where?'
'She'll be over at the university all morning. If it's convenient, she could meet you in the med school dining room at twelve-thirty.'
'That would be fine.'
'Good, I'll tell her.'
'How's Ms. Lowell doing?'
'I'm sure she's doing as well as can be expected.'
I read
Trafficant's style was crude and uncontrolled, boiling with junior-high revolutionary rhetoric and obscenities. His editor had left his faulty spelling and grammar intact, aiming, I suppose, for gritty authenticity.
In the first half, he worked two themes to the death: 'Society screwed me' and 'I'm getting even.' The next fifty pages were letters he'd written to various celebrities and officials. Only two had answered, the congressman from Trafficant's home district in Oklahoma- who responded with a Dear Constituent form letter- and M. Bayard Lowell, who praised Trafficant's 'bloody poetry.'
The two men began to correspond, Trafficant ranting and Lowell commiserating. The final page was a photocopy of Trafficant's approved parole application.
A biography and picture were on the inside back cover, the mug shot the papers had run.
A psychopath making it in Hollywood- not a huge stretch. Yet Trafficant had turned his back on it.
A best-seller who admired the Dausseldorf Monster.