Easy to miss-no excuses, Delaware. Now it screamed at me.
The victim, wrote Elias, was discovered by a hiker, walking with his dog (see ref, 45).
That led me to the rear of the Bonpaine file, a listing of over three hundred events enumerated by the meticulous Detective Elias.
Number 45 read: Hiker: tourist from Michigan. Mr. Ferris Grant.
Number 46 was an address and phone number in Flint, Michigan.
Number 47: Dog: black labr. retriev. Mr. F. Grant states 'she has great nose, thinks she's a drug dog.'
I'd heard that before, word for word. Paul Ulrich describing Duchess, the golden retriever.
Ferris Grant.
Michael Ferris Burke. Grant Rushton.
Flint, Michigan. Huey Grant Mitchell had worked in Michigan-Ann Arbor.
I phoned the number Ferris Grant had left as his home exchange, got a recorded message from the Flint Museum of Art.
No sign Elias had followed up. Why would he bother?
Ferns Grant had been nothing more than a helpful citizen who'd aided a major investigation by 'discovering' the body.
Just as Paul Ulrich had discovered Mate.
How Burke must have loved that. Orchestrating. Providing himself with a legitimate reason to show up at the crime scene. Proud of his handiwork, watching the cops stumble.
Psychopath's private joke. Games, always games. His internal laughter must have been deafening.
Hiker with a dog.
Paul Ulrich, Tanya Stratton.
I paged hurriedly to the photo gallery Leimert Fusco had assembled, tried to reconcile any of the more recent portraits of Burke with my memory of Ulrich. But Ul-rich's face wouldn't take shape in my head, all I recalled was the handlebar mustache.
Which was exactly the point.
Facial hair changed things. I'd been struck by that when trying to reconcile the various photos of Burke. The beard Burke had grown as Huey Mitchell, hospital security guard, as effective as any mask.
He'd gone on to use another Michigan identity. Ferris Grant… the Flint Museum. Another ha ha: I'm an artist! Reverting to Michigan-to familiar patterns- because at heart, psychopaths were rigid, there always had to be a script of sorts.
I studied Mitchell's picture, the dead eyes, the flat expression. Luxuriant mask of a beard. Heavy enough to nurture a giant mustache.
When I tried to picture Ulrich's face, all I saw was the mustache.
I strained to recall his other physical characteristics.
Medium-size man, late thirties to forty. Perfect match to Burke on both counts.
Shorter, thinner hair than any of Burke's pictures- balding to a fuzzy crew cut. Each picture of Burke revealed a steady, sequential loss, so that fit, too.
The mustache… stretching wider than Ulrich's face. As good a mask as any. I'd thought it an unusual flamboyance, contrasting especially with Ulrich's conservative dress.
Financial consultant, Mr. Respectable… Something else Ulrich had said-one of the first things he'd said- came back to me: So far our names haven't been in the paper. We're going to be able to keep it that way, aren't we, Detective Sturgis?
Concerned about publicity. Craving publicity.
Milo had answered that the two of them would probably be safe from media scrutiny, but Ukich had stuck with the topic, talked about fifteen minutes of fame.
Andy Warhol coined that phrase and look what happened to him… checked into a hospital… went out in a bag… celebrity stinks… look at Princess Di, look at Dr. Mate.
Letting Milo know that fame was what he was after. Playing with Milo, the way he'd toyed with the Seattle cops.
Getting as close as he could to criminal celebrity without confessing outright.
It had been no coincidence that he and Tanya Stratton had chosen Mulholland for a morning walk that Monday.
Stratton had come out and said so: We rarely come up here, except on Sundays. Resentful about the change in routine. About Paul's insistence.
She'd complained to Milo that everything had been Paul's idea. Including the decision to talk to Milo up at the site, rather than at home. Ulrich had claimed to be attempting a kind of therapy for Tanya, but his real motive- multiple motives-had been something quite different: keep Milo off Ulrich's home territory, and get another chance at deja vu.
Ulrich had talked about the horror of discovering Mate, but I realized now that emotion had been lacking.
Not so, Tanya Stratton. She'd been clearly upset, eager to leave. But Ulrich had come across amiable, helpful, relaxed. Too relaxed for someone who'd encountered a bloodbath.
An outdoorsy guy-Fusco had said Michael Burke skied, fancied himself an outdoorsman-Ulrich had chatted about staying fit, the beauty of the site.
Once you get past the gate, it's like being in another world.
Oh yeah.
His world.
Amiable guy, but the charm was wearing thin with Stratton. Was she edgy because she'd begun to sense something about her boyfriend? Or just a relationship gone stagnant?
I recalled her pallor, the unsteady gait. Wispy hair. Dark glasses-hiding something?
A fragile girl.
Not a well girl?
Then I understood and my heart beat faster: one of Michael Burke's patterns was to hook up with sick women, befriend them, nurture them.
Then guide them out of this world.
He enjoyed killing on so many levels. The consummate Dr. Death, and one way or the other the world was going to know it. How Eldon Mate's fame-the legitimacy Mate had obtained while dispatching fifty lives- must have eaten at Burke. All those years in medical school, and Burke still couldn't practice openly the way Mate did, had to serve as Mate's apprentice.
Had to masquerade as a layman.
Because since arriving in L.A., he hadn't found a way to bogus his medical credentials, had to represent himself as a financial consultant.
Mostly real-estate work… Century City address. Nice and ambiguous.
Home base, Encino. Just over the hill. Respectable neighborhood for an upstanding guy.
In L. A. you could live off a smile and a zip code.
The business card Ulrich had given Milo was sitting in a drawer at the West L.A. station. I phoned information and asked for Ulrich's Century City business listing, was only half surprised when I got one. But when I tried the number, a recording told me the line had been disconnected. No Encino exchange for either him or Tanya Stratton, nothing anywhere in the Valley or the city.
Tanya. Not a well girl.
A relationship on the wane with Ulrich could prove lethal.
I looked at the clock. Just after six. Light through the office curtains said the sun had risen. If Milo had been up all night at the Glendale crime scene, he'd be home now, getting some well-deserved rest.
Some things could wait. I phoned him. Rick answered on the first ring. 'Up early, Alex.'
'Did I wake you?'
'Not hardly. I was just about to leave for the E.R. Milo's already gone.'
'Gone where?'
'He didn't say. Probably back to Glendale, that double murder. He was out there until midnight, came home, slept for four hours, woke in a foul mood, showered without singing and left the house with his hair still wet.'
