Fear Itself

“No, Paris. I don’t need you and it’a be bad enough if one of us is found wit’ a dead man in the trunk. I know what I’m doin’, brother. You just do what you do with his things.”

I watched as Fearless carried the man-doll down to the street and dumped him in the trunk. I didn’t worry about the money or even my book in there. I was a new man, at least for the moment, concentrated on the task at hand.

ALL THEODORE TIMMERMAN LEFT in the world was a package of mint gum, a roll of nickels, one of his own fake insurance cards with Craighton at pull lay 10:30 scrawled on it, and a ring of three keys. The keys were probably to his apartment, but the address would have been in the wallet that Fearless had confiscated before taking him to the hospital. We’d tossed the man’s pants, wallet, and shoes in a bin downtown. There was no finding his address.

And why would I still be chasing him down anyway? He tried to kill me three times already. There was no reason for me to put us into further jeopardy. The one real threat to me was dead. I had killed him with my own two hands.

The memory of the fight flooded my mind. For my entire life I had imagined what it would be like if I would fight to the death against some tough and come out victorious. But the reality was empty. I still felt guilty, even though he was a bully and white and had intentions of killing me. I felt I owed something to the world because I was a murderer and Fearless Jones was out covering my tracks.

I GOT TO MILO’S OFFICE at about four in the morning. The streets were empty of traffic. It didn’t take me long to locate Milo’s operatives file. The problem was that it was in one of the cabinets that Timmerman had overturned when he went after Milo to find out Winifred Fine’s identity.

Hindered by my sore finger, I took a while to flip the metal cabinet, but I finally got it.

Timmerman had his checks mailed to an address on Ogden Drive just north of Venice Boulevard.

IT WAS A HOUSE, not an apartment, on a street that was empty of any potential witnesses. The first key I tried in the lock fit. The numbness of my near-death experience kept me from fear or common sense. I went inside without even knocking. What if he had a girlfriend or a roommate? But those thoughts didn’t cross my mind until weeks later. At that moment I was a fool on a mission. And all the bricks of the road to hell were falling right into place at my feet.

The house was dark and so I ran my hand along the wall until I found the switch.

Mr. Timmerman hadn’t cleaned up once since the day he had moved in. The sink and tables were full of crusty dishes. The garbage stank and he had forgotten to flush the toilet before leaving his house to hunt down Bartholomew Perry, Kit Mitchell, and me. There was a rug in the bathtub, I never did figure out why. His bed was littered with half-filled potato chip bags and magazines with pictures of nude Negro women on every page. The floor was his hamper and every shade and curtain in the house was drawn.

Sherlock Holmes would have been at sea in that grubby hole. The skip tracer’s papers were in among the dishes and newspapers and scattered with coffee grounds.

Some mothers think they’re showing love by cleaning up after their sons, but in the long run they make them into feral things, growing bacteria in their bedrooms and filling the air with fungus and dust.

I looked around aimlessly for a while and then concentrated my search. I figured that even a slob like Timmerman would have a special place for important papers and projects. I was looking for a trunk or a briefcase, a filing cabinet, or maybe just a corner of a closet that didn’t have the clutter of the rest of his house.

Over an hour later I hadn’t found a thing.

The back door of his kitchen led to a small walkway in a yard overgrown with weeds and the branches of an untrimmed oak. Through the leaves and boughs I found another door. This one opened into his garage.

I knew from the moment I flipped the light switch that Theodore Timmerman was insane. The garage was neat as a pin. The floor was tiled with black and white squares that had been perfectly laid. He had three different desks, a telephone, one white upright filing cabinet, and over four thousand watts of light to illuminate every corner.

The life of his mind was in the garage, whereas his house was a trough where he ate and masturbated. Looking over his files I could see that he was a man of many faces. He used jobs like Milo’s to worm his way into more lucrative, if less legal, activities. He had files on dozens of men and women he had chased down, and scams that he ran through the mail on a regular basis. There was one whole file of photographs. Most of these were of the incriminating variety: people in places they shouldn’t have been, men and women making love, grinning so wide that you just knew they weren’t married—at least not to each other. But then there were other pictures that were more disturbing: men in sexual situations with young boys, over two dozen photographs of corpses, with detailed notes about the circumstances of their deaths. One photograph was of a young woman who I had first read about in the L.A. Times. Minna Wexler was stripped to the waist. One of her large breasts had been marred, maybe burned. Lance Wexler looked just as he had when I came across him in his apartment. Kit Mitchell was also pretty much the same as I had found him.

Timmerman had killed them all.

Theodore Timmerman was a pornographer, murderer, extortionist, and blackmailer. And Milo had been working with him for years. I didn’t think that Milo knew what this man was up to, but just the fact that he didn’t suspect him put the bail bondsman in a whole new light for me. I would never again trust his estimation of people or situations. And there was another thing . . .

At the back of the top drawer of his center desk I found a tiny leather notebook like the one Sergeant Rawlway took notes in. The notebook had page after page of handwriting that covered every detail of the cases that Timmerman was covering. His descriptions were cruel and humiliating, but they also served the purpose of obscuring the identities of the people he stalked. Toward the end of the little book there began the entries about Bartholomew Perry. The most important segment read:

 

. . . Watermelon Man must have had a weak heart . . . he had a telephone number that Craighton answered . . . Craighton made Mr. Sweet’s salary look like chump change . . . Craighton sent me after Titty mama and Strong boy but they didn’t know shit . . . it was the nigger who knew but he died before he could even tell me where the car salesman lived . . . but I got some leads . . . pretty soon Mr. Sweet will have to get me into that rich woman’s house . . .

 

I read everything he had to say about Bartholomew and Kit and Milo. It seemed that somewhere along the way he became aware of the book. It was probably the man Craighton who told him. But there was no information about