Something would come up. I was sure of it. Someone, somewhere had seen something. Someone, somewhere knew something.
I drank some more beer and pictured the corpse lying at the bottom of the ocean, being nibbled and feasted on, until a trawler came chugging by with its nets.
Hell of a way to go.
The clouds above swirled and churned and raced towards wherever clouds went to.
Sounds like a Shel Silverstein book, I thought.
When I was ten, my father and I came home after picking up a pizza, only to discover that my mother, Mary Knighthorse, had been murdered. She had been raped, her throat had been slit, and she had been left to bleed to death in her bedroom.
Which was where I had found her.
I’m thirty-one now. The image of my mother’s corpse reaching under her bed will forever haunt me. Hell, it’s now who I am, a part of my genetic make-up. It’s also a reminder that her killer is still out there.
That was twenty-one years ago.
I now had in my possession a time-lapse photograph of a young man, a surfer by the looks of him, who had been following my parents on the very day my mother had been killed.
My parents had spent that day in Huntington Beach, working hard to rekindle their love. I rarely gave my father much credit for anything, but I did give him credit for that: at least, making an effort to salvage their marriage.
Granted, his many affairs had done much to spoil the marriage to begin with.
Anyway, my parents had been taking photos of each other on that day-her last day. Some of the photos were just him, some were just of her. Some were together, no doubt taken by strangers. There were over twenty photos. And in three of them, a young man had been watching them.
Using state-of-the-art age-progression photography, I had one of the pictures analyzed. The image that came back was startling.
Startling, because I recognized the man.
The son of the detective in charge of investigating my mother’s murder. My mother’s murder which remained unsolved to this day.
I shook my head again, and considered the implications all over again.
His son. A cover-up?
I didn’t know.
But I was going to find out.
Chapter Nine
It was early Monday morning and I was re-reading Hansen’s police report and eating one of three breakfast burritos that were wrapped in foil and lined on my desk in front of me when an elderly woman stepped timidly into my office.
Stepped might have been overreaching. Poked her head in a little was a little closer.
“ Are you the detective?” she asked.
Her voice was oddly strong, coming from what I assumed was a very old woman.
“ I am,” I said. “And you would make a fine one yourself.”
She blinked at me. “It says ‘Knighthorse Investigations’ on your door.”
“ Sometimes the most obvious clues are the hardest to see.”
She nodded as if I had spoken the truth, then stepped all the way in. She then carefully turned around and eased the door shut. Her back was bent and her hair was white, and she probably could have used a cane or a walker, but didn’t. That said something about her. What it said, I wasn’t sure. Stubborn? Independent? Anti-cane?
I got up out of my chair and offered her one of my four client chairs, pulling it aside a little to give her easier access. She hobbled straight to it, placed a spotted hand on the chair’s wooden arm, and eased slowly down. I turned the chair slightly so that it was facing my desk again. The old woman weighed maybe 80 pounds. My three breakfast burritos weighed almost as much.
As I went back to my chair, she set a very shiny black purse on her lap, which she held onto with both hands.
“ So how can I help you, Mrs…?”
“ Poppie,” she said. “Just Poppie.”
I grinned. I liked the name for reasons I couldn’t quite articulate. “So how can I help you, Poppie?”
“ We, Mr. Knighthorse, we have a problem in our neighborhood and the police just don’t seem to be taking it very seriously, and we want it to stop.”
“ Understandable. What’s your problem, Poppie?”
“ There’s a man in our neighborhood who likes to…” She paused, looked away. Some sort of emotion raced through her. What it was, I couldn’t tell. But her lower jaw trembled a little. She tried again, “Who likes to…expose himself.”
“ I see,” I said, although I didn’t. “Where do you live?”
“ Leisure World. Have you been there?”
I had. It was in Seal Beach, and it was an epic retirement community, complete with its own driving codes and police force. To get in was a nightmare. To drive around was a nightmare. To find addresses was a nightmare.
I nodded. “Have you seen this man?”
“ More of him than I care to admit.”
“ How many times?”
“ Three.”
“ Has he exposed himself to other women?”
“ Many.”
“ How many?”
“ Maybe eight. Maybe more. Sometimes whole groups.”
She wouldn’t look at me. As she spoke, she looked off to her right. Her lower jaw still quivered. I realized now what the emotion was: fury.
“ Can you describe a typical, ah, encounter?”
She looked at me. “Do I have to?”
“ It would help.”
She took in a lot of air. She continued looking away. “It’s always at night. At first he would knock on doors and flash whoever opened it.”
“ Single women only?” I asked.
She nodded. She still wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Of course, only single women. It even got to the point that we wouldn’t answer our doors any more.”
“ Was he disguised?”
She shuddered a little. “A wig, I think.”
“ And you told the park authorities?”
“ Of course. They beefed up security. It stopped for nearly six months.”
“ Long enough for security to forget about it.”
She nodded. “Right. Then the…exposing began again.” She turned her full gaze onto me, and her jaw was really shaking now. “Last night, he flashed me and my friends while we were walking back from a play.”
“ A play in Leisure World?”
“ We have plays all the time. And concerts, too.”
“ Of course,” I said. “Has he ever hurt anyone?”
“ Oh, heavens no. He just shows us his little willy and takes off running.”
