Shantee Moloney said, “I’m not a gossip.”
“Sometimes it’s hard to know what’s petty and what’s important.”
Dead air.
“Ms. Moloney-”
“Okay, okay. After Dale stopped coming in, I mentioned to another volunteer that I’d tried to call him, got a disconnected number, was worried if he was okay. This other person said, ‘Oh, he’s fine, just saw him over at the Tadich Grill a couple of nights ago.’ That’s an old restaurant in San Francisco. I said, ‘Well that’s good, at least I know he’s okay. But I’m still wondering why he suddenly stopped coming to the shelter.’ And this other person laughs and says, ‘Looked to me like Dale had a sudden conversion.’ I say, ‘What you mean?’ And he tells me Dale was in a booth by himself eating a ginormous meal – huge platter of oysters, crab cocktail, then a honkin’ shoulder of lamb. That floored me. I’m a vegetarian but I eat eggs and dairy. Dale claimed to be
“Faking it,” I said.
“I guess he fooled me. If it’s true. One thing he didn’t fake was his dedication to the strays. No one could’ve cared for those animals with more tenderness.”
“Bunnies.”
“Someone’s stupid idea of an Easter gift. I’m talking newborns, like big as your thumb. Dale stayed up all night nursing them with an eyedropper. When I left, he was
“Why would the other volunteer make up that story?”
“Let’s just say he and Dale weren’t chummy.”
“Could I have this person’s name, please?”
“Brian Leary, but that won’t help you, he’s gone. AIDS, six years ago.”
“Is there anyone else at the shelter who’d remember Dale?”
“No,” she said. “It was just the three of us working the midnight shift. I’m a freelance embroiderer, my hours are flexible, and Brian was a nurse at UCSF, did the three to eleven and didn’t need much sleep, so he’d come in after work.”
“What about Dale?”
“Dale spent more time at the shelter than anyone. He never mentioned any job at all. I got the feeling there was family money.”
“Why’s that?”
“The way he dressed – wrinkled clothes but good quality? The way he carried himself? I’m pretty tuned in to class distinctions.”
“What was the problem between him and Brian?”
“I really couldn’t tell you. Brian mostly worked with the cats, he loved cats. Dale and I did anything else that needed to be done.”
“Brian never said why he didn’t like Dale?”
“No, I guess it was just bad chemistry. I was in the middle – I thought they were both good guys.”
“Brian just happened to be at the Tadich Grill that night?”
“Was he stalking Dale? Not at all. Brian was out on a date, some doctor he’d been seeing.”
“Do you recall a name?”
“You’re kidding,” she said. “First of all, Brian never gave me a name. Second of all, this was almost a decade ago.”
I said, “Can’t fault a guy for trying.”
“I really can’t imagine Dale doing anything criminal. Anyway, gotta go-”
“How’d Dale come to work at the shelter?”
“Walked in one night and volunteered. I was up to my elbows in abandoned puppies and it was a blessing. He got right to work, cleaning, feeding, checking for fleas. He was great.”
“Can you describe him for me?”
“Big,” said Shantee Moloney.
“Tall or heavy?”
“Both. At least six feet, probably taller. He wasn’t really fat, more like… padded.”
“What about his hair color?”
“Light – dirty blond, but it was dyed. He wore it long – shaggy, over his forehead. But it always looked clean and shiny. Real shiny. That’s what I meant about carrying himself well. He wore hemp shoes and belt. But there was always a… I guess what I’m saying is he managed to look polished.”
“Did he ever talk about his family?”
“Nope.”
“No personal details at all?”
“The other cop asked the same thing and that made me realize Dale’s family never came up. I’d call Dale a private person. But not cold. Just the opposite, friendly. And businesslike – really into doing the job efficiently.”
“Any other physical details you can remember?”
“His beard was darker than his hair – medium brown.”
First mention of facial hair. “Full beard or goatee?”
“It totally covered his face. Reminded me of that guy used to be on TV, that mountain man – Grizzly whatever – Adams. But Dale was no mountain man.”
“Too polished.”
She laughed. “You could say that.”
“Gay?”
“A lot of us are. So where’d Dale end up?”
“That was going to be my next question.”
“I’m supposed to know?” she said.
“Did he ever talk about traveling?”
“He did say he liked the great cities.”
“Which ones?”
“Paris, Rome, London, New York. Maybe Madrid, I don’t recall. The only reason I remember the conversation is he and Brian kind of got into it. Brian saying if you really loved animals you couldn’t love cities, cities destroyed habitat, and Dale launched into this lecture about the cats of Rome and how they adapted and thrived. Then Brian said the whole urban thing was a cliche – April in Paris, et cetera – and Dale said some cliches persisted because they were valid, the great cities were called that because they were, and if Brian thought San Francisco was sophisticated, he was naive. It just kind of went on that way for a while, then they returned to work.”
“Did Dale mention any other places he liked?”
“Not that I remember.”
“No Grizzly Adams,” I said.
“His nails were always clean and manicured and he wore after-shave. Couldn’t tell you the brand, but it was something nice and citrus-ey.”
“Anything more?”
“That’s not enough? After all these years, I thought I was being pretty darn encyclopedic.”
“You are. That’s why I keep turning pages. So Dale was good with all the animals.”
“Better than good,” said Shantee Moloney. “Tender. Especially the little ones. Not just babies, anything small – he really had a thing for puppies and toy dogs. Nastiest little critter, he could calm it down. I got a sense he’d had experience with the teeny ones.”
CHAPTER 20
Ansell Dennond Bright’s DMV photo came through at ten a.m. the following day.
Thirteen-year-old shot, when Bright was twenty-nine.
