Milo said, 'Let me ask you a question, Frank. A guy like Hatterson-in prison he'd be lunch meat.'
Dollard smiled. 'So what's his status here? Low. Same as everyone. For all I know, the other guys don't even know what he did. They don't care much about each other-that's the point. They're not connected.'
Driving through the eucalyptus grove, Milo began to laugh.
'What?' I said.
'How's this for a story line: we catch the bad guy; he's some joker they let out by mistake. He pleads insanity, ends up right back here.'
'Sell it to Hollywood-no, not stupid enough.'
We left the grove, passed into white light. 'Then again, you tell me our boy probably doesn't act or look crazy, so maybe I should forget about this place.'
'My guess is our boy is probably more like a fifth-floor resident.'
'So do I bother looking for a recently released Starkweather alum? And what's with that group Claire ran? Why do low-functioning guys need daily living skills? Unless she had a notion some of them would end up on the outside.'
'Maybe it was altruism,' I said. 'Misguided or otherwise. Heidi Ott might be able to shed some light on it. She'd also be able to tell you if any of Claire's patients have been released recently.'
'Yeah, she's definitely high on my list. Tough kid, the way she handled that Ralph guy. Can you imagine a female coming in here, day in and day out?' He drove off Starkweather Drive and back onto the connecting road. The bare gray acreage appeared, then the first of the packing plants, gigantic and soot-stained. Behind the shadowy columns, the blue sky seemed like an insult.
Milo said, 'I'm neglecting basic detective dogma: Lay your foundation. Get to know the vie. Trouble is, I'm getting the same feeling about Claire that I did about Dada. Grabbing air. She lived alone, no obvious kinks so far, no pals I can locate, no local family. You heard the way everyone at Starkweather described her: nice, did her job, stayed to herself. Offended no one. Richard's spiritual sister. So what do we have here, a psychopath who goes after inoffensive people?'
'Assuming the cases are related, maybe someone who goes after lonely people.'
'Then half of L.A.'s at risk.'
'Where is Claire's family?'
'Pittsburgh. Just her parents-she was an only child.' He chewed his cheek. 'I did the notification call. You know the drill: I ruin their lives, they cry, I listen. They're coming out this week; maybe I'll get more than I did over the phone, which was: Claire had no enemies, terrific daughter, wonderful girl. They're always wonderful girls.'
We cut through industrial wasteland. Mounds of rotting machinery, slag heaps, muddy trenches, planes of greasy dirt. Under a gray sky, it could have passed for hell. Today, it just looked like something you kept from the voting public.
Milo wasn't noticing the scenery. Both his hands were back on the wheel, tight-knuckled, white.
'Lonely people,' he said. 'Let me show you her house.'
He drove much too fast all the way to the freeway. As we swooped up the on-ramp, he said, 'I was up there for a good part of yesterday, checking out the street, talking to neighbors. Home's the big killing spot for females, so I told the crime-scene guys to take their time. Unfortunately, it looks like time ill spent. Got some prelims this morning: no blood or semen, no evidence of break-in or disruption. Lots of prints all over the place, which you'd expect in anyone's house, but so far, the only matches are to Claire's. Final autopsy's scheduled for tomorrow if we're lucky and no drive-bys stuff up the pipeline.'
'What did the neighbors have to say?'
'Take a guess.'
' 'She kept to herself, never caused problems.' '
'I'm hanging with the Answer Man.' He pressed down on the accelerator. 'No one spoke two words to her. No one even knew her name.'
'What about visitors?'
'None that anyone saw,' he said. 'Just like Richard. She did have an ex-husband, though. Guy named Joseph Stargill. Lawyer, lives down in San Diego now. I put a call in to him.'
'How'd you find him?'
'Came across some divorce papers she kept in her home office. I called Dr. Theobold this morning; he'll be happy to engage in shrink talk with you. He had some vague recollection of Claire getting divorced. Only reason he found out is each year staff members update their resumes. In the past, Claire had put 'Married' in the marital- status blank. This year she whited it out and typed 'Divorced.' '
'So it was recent,' I said. 'Theobold didn't ask her about it?'
'He said she just wasn't the type you got personal with.'
'Maybe that's why she took the job at Starkweather.'
'What do you mean?'
'Great escape. Show up on time, don't make waves, no one bugs you. Like Dr. Aldrich said, the staff gets leeway. Maybe she wanted to do clinical work but was afraid of having to relate to patients. Surrounding herself with psychotics took the pressure off, and as long as none of her patients got violent, she could do what she wanted with them. The perfect escape.'
'Escape from what?'
'Academia. And emotional entanglement. Her divorce was recent. Just because she didn't talk about it doesn't mean she wasn't still hurting. People going through life changes sometimes try to simplify.'
'You see Starkweather as simple.'
'In a sense, it is.'
He didn't answer, put on even more speed.
A few miles later, I said, 'On the other hand, she got entangled with someone. The person who cut her throat.'
The house was like so many others.
Single-story white stucco aged to a spoiled-milk gray, roofed with black composite shingle. Attached single garage, double parking space instead of a front yard. One of those unadorned late-fifties hillside knockups posing as intentionally contemporary but really the product of a tight construction budget. The street was called Cape Horn Drive-a short, straight afterthought of a slit into the north side of Woodrow Wilson, dead-ending at a huge tipu tree. Matching trees tilted over the pavement. The sidewalk was bleached and dry where the branches didn't hover.
Second lot in, third from the end. Eight neighboring residences in all, most like Claire Argent's, with minor variation. Very few cars at the curb, but closed garage doors made it hard to assess what that meant. No major intersections or nearby commercial district. You'd have to intend to come up here.
This high, the air was moving. In the summer light, the tipu trees were filmy, their fern-shaped leaves swishing in the breeze. Contrary creatures: they lost their leaves in the spring, when everything else bloomed. When other branches began to shed, the tipus were a riot of yellow blossoms. Not yet. The only sparks of color shot from flower boxes and potted plants. Other houses, not Claire's.
We made our way up to the front door. Nice views all around. The freeway was miles away, but I could hear it. Nowadays, you always seem to hear it.
LAPD seal on the door. Milo had a key and let us in. I followed him into a tight, bare space too small to be called an entry hall. Two white walls right-angled us into the living room.
Not a lived-in room.
Unmarked walls, empty hardwood floors, not a single piece of furniture.
Milo took three echoing steps and stood in the center. Over his head was a light fixture. Cheap frosted dome; it looked original.
Chenille drapes browned the windows. The walls looked clean but were turning the same gray-white as the exterior.
The floors caught my attention-lacquered shiny, free of scuff marks, dents, drag furrows. As if the inhabitants had floated, rather than walked.
I felt short of breath. The house had no odor-neither the stench of death nor the aromas of tenancy. No food, sweat, perfume, cut flowers, air freshener. Not even the must of disuse.
A vacant place; it seemed airless, incapable of sustaining life.
