It was Bonnie’s parents who’d demanded a traditional service. They had never approved of Jim beyond his finances, especially not his mother-in-law, whose previously snide comments turned downright hostile after her daughter’s death. “You should have been there with her, you know,” she’d said at church that morning. “But then I suppose Bonnie went up there to get away from you.” She wasn’t being malicious: she was simply too devastated to worry about Jim’s feelings.
Family, friends, colleagues, and neighbors were gathered now at the Hood home. The children appeared more at ease with so many familiar faces joined in a familiar setting. Jim Jr. sat on his grandfather’s lap and played with a Rubik’s Cube. Mindy, without asking permission, changed out of her dress and into her favored jeans and a T-shirt. Jim had the event catered, but Bonnie’s mother insisted on making ambrosia, which she claimed was Bonnie’s favorite childhood dessert though Jim had never seen his wife eat so much as a spoonful.
He’d hoped to open the backyard to guests, but it was a rare overcast night in SoCal. Even the Hoods’ sprawling and well-furnished living room couldn’t quite accommodate upwards of fifty people. Guests spilled into the family room, the kitchen, even the master bedroom. Jim mingled, listening to condolences and fond memories, nodding and smiling where appropriate, saying little, keeping each conversation brief. The facts of Bonnie’s death—in particular the fact of Rudy—had made the papers. Jim felt people looking at him with two expressions at once, as though attempting to mirror the mix of shame and grief they believed he must be feeling.
As the night wore on and people continued drinking, Jim seemed to become more and more invisible. He overheard things, the kind of things no one would have said to his face, though he wondered if deep down they wanted him to hear.
“You can’t blame her,” a friend of Bonnie’s told someone Jim didn’t recognize. “She was faithful to him for all those years, and he barely paid any attention to her outside of the business.”
“Maybe it wasn’t Jim who pulled the trigger, but it might as well have been,” said a cousin Jim had seen maybe a half-dozen times in his life.
Bonnie’s mother, after a few glasses of sherry, went even further: “Someone paid to have my daughter killed, and I know damn well who that someone is.”
It was the same wherever Jim went in the house. He needed to calm down. He needed a stiff drink. He was standing in the kitchen, filling his glass with ice, when the worst possible thought occurred to him: What if the children were overhearing these conversations, too? He tossed his glass in the sink, looked around frantically, then ran down the hall and burst into living room. He found Mindy and Jim Jr. sitting on floor with Bonnie’s brother, playing a game of Chinese Checkers, Jim Jr.’s latest obsession.
“Kids, kids,” Jim called, louder than he meant to. “It’s getting late. I think we need to start saying goodbye to our guests.”
“Just let us finish this game,” Jim Jr. said.
Jim felt panicked, like the boy’s failure to act quickly might somehow cost another life.
“Now,” he said.
Despite himself, he could feel his face turning red and his jaws flexing.
“Your mother’s dead, and you’re sitting there playing a game,” he shouted. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
He scanned the faces in the room, saw the makings of an angry mob staring back at him.
CHAPTER 12
THE TULARE COUNTY Homicide Bureau, with its fake wood paneling and softball league pennants, looked like a semifinished basement though it sat on the second floor of Camp Nelson’s municipal building. O’Dowd had to turn sideways in order to shuffle through a hallway jammed with mismatched filing cabinets. He entered a room full of cluttered desks and disgruntled detectives and shouted Wylie’s name from the opposite side of the floor.
“I’m trying to work here,” Sergeant Sandercoe protested from across the room.
“Oh please,” O’Dowd said. “Like you know how to do anything on that computer besides play solitaire.”
O’Dowd reached Wylie’s desk and took a moment to catch his breath.
“You all right there?” Wylie asked.
“You aren’t going to believe this,” O’Dowd said. “We got a hit. Off those bottles.”
“The Heineken bottles?”
“Yeah. A guy named Bruce Beauchamp from Fontana. Construction worker by day, drug dealer by night. He has a page and a half worth of priors. And get this: he’s six four, 240 pounds, and has curly hair.”
“Not bad,” Wylie said. “Any connection to Rudy Manuel?”
“Too early to say, but I doubt it. They did their stints at different facilities, and they went away for different crimes.”
“We have an address for Mr. Beauchamp?”
“A trailer park halfway down the coast to LA.”
“All right, then,” Wylie said. “Let’s get the cavalry lined up.”
* * *
They met the local task force at five the next morning, in the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall three miles from Beauchamp’s trailer camp. The sheriff’s office sent three squad cars and a SWAT van.
“Seems like a lot for just one guy,” O’Dowd told Sergeant Sandercoe, the SWAT team leader.
“These trailer parks can turn into combat zones real quick,” Sandercoe said. “Our incident commander doesn’t like us taking chances.”
Wylie guzzled his coffee.
“Fine by me,” he said. “I gave up on guts and glory a long time ago.”
The sergeant spread out a map of the trailer park on the hood of O’Dowd’s sedan and drew a circle around Beauchamp’s home with a red marker.
“We’ll serve the warrant,” he said. “You hang back here, at the park’s entrance. Once we’ve got him in cuffs, he’s all yours.”
O’Dowd yawned.
“He boring you?” Wylie asked.
“I’m a night owl by nature,” O’Dowd said. “Coffee doesn’t work for me before the sun’s up.”
O’Dowd and Wylie made the short drive sandwiched between SWAT’s unmarked van and the three squad cars. They peeled off at the entrance, cut the sedan’s headlights, and sat waiting for the go-ahead to come over the radio.
They didn’t have to wait long. By the time Wylie tore the cellophane off a fresh pack of cigarettes and lit one, the sergeant’s voice was already summoning them through a haze of static.
“Beauchamp must not be a fighter,” O’Dowd said.
“Let’s hope he coughs up his confession that quick.”
They found him sitting on the makeshift stoop in front of his broken-down trailer, hands cuffed behind his back. He wore a stained tank top and an old pair of jeans, and his curly red hair was clearly fresh off the pillow. Sergeant Sandercoe stood over him like he was the prize at the end of a big-game hunt.
“He give you any trouble?” O’Dowd asked.
“No sir,” Sandercoe said. “Had a Glock on the night-stand, but he slept right through us kicking the door in.”
“I thought felons weren’t allowed to have guns,” Wylie said, for Beauchamp’s benefit.
“You know, I don’t believe they are,” O’Dowd said. “I believe that’s what you call a violation.”
“I got no clue what you guys are doing here,” Beauchamp said, without much conviction.
“We’ll tell you all about it in the car,” Wylie said. “Right after we read you your rights.”
“I know my rights.”
“I guess you would by now,” O’Dowd said. “Come on, let’s go.”
Beauchamp stood, seeming to keep rising well past the six foot four Rudy had described. Wylie had to slide the passenger seat forward in order to fit him in the back of the sedan. Neighbors stepped outside to watch, the men bare-chested and the women in curlers. Their expressions were none too friendly.
“Sandercoe wasn’t kidding,” O’Dowd said under his breath.
“Yeah, let’s scat,” Wylie said.
Th
e sun was starting to show by the time they hit the highway. Wylie and O’Dowd had planned to say as little as possible until they got back to the station, but Beauchamp wouldn’t have it.
“I’m hungry and I gotta piss,” he complained. “This is cruel and unusual.”
“Pipe down,” Wylie said.
“Where are you taking me? At least tell me that much.”
“Someplace you’ve been before.”
“I’ve been a lot of places. And I didn’t break any laws. What you’re doing right now is called kidnapping. State-sanctioned kidnapping.”
“We’re going to have a nice, civilized conversation,” O’Dowd said. “That’s all.”
“Then let’s have it here. Go ahead and ask your questions. I got nothing to hide.”
“All right,” Wylie said, pivoting in his seat. “Why don’t you tell us what you were doing up at Camp Nelson two Saturdays ago?”
“That what this is about? A working man can’t take a weekend to himself without getting dragged to the precinct house?”
“No offense, Mr. Beauchamp, but you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who has the luxury of weekend R&R,” Wylie said.
“Why? ’Cause I live in a trailer? I make more in a month than you two put together.”
“Like I said, Mr. Beauchamp …”
“So I guess you’re Tulare County cops? That where we’re headed? Camp Nelson?”
“See, now you’ve ruined the surprise,” Wylie said.
Beauchamp perked up a little, like he saw an advantage in dealing with backwoods cops.
“What is you think I did up there?”
“I got a better idea,” O’Dowd said. “Why don’t you tell us what you did up there?”
“All right. A friend from the job site told me about the place. I’d been having trouble with my girl and needed to clear my head. A weekend of fishing and hiking seemed like just the thing.”
“No drinking?”
“Yeah, some of that, too.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know if the place even had a name. It was down a country road, way off the beaten path.”
“How’d you find it?”
“Desk clerk where I was staying suggested I check it out. He drew me a map.”
“Where were you staying?”
“Motel Six. Go ahead and check their records.”
“We will,” Wylie said. “Meanwhile, what’s your friend’s name? The one who recommended Camp Nelson.”
“John.”
“What’s John’s last name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“We’re work friends. We talk on our lunch break, that’s all.”
“So if we show up at the site on Monday morning we’ll be able to find this John?” O’Dowd asked.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“He’s a day worker. He goes wherever they send him.”
“But your foreman would know how to reach him, right?” O’Dowd followed up.
“I guess.”
“What about your girl?” Wylie asked. “She have a name? A number?”
Beauchamp sunk down, pushed his knees against the back of Wylie’s seat. They’d made it clear that he was in for the long haul.
“You know what?” he said. “Why don’t you guys call and get me a lawyer. I’m gonna rest up now. Make sure I got my wits about me.”
“That’s a good idea, Mr. Beauchamp,” Wylie said. “The best one I’ve heard in a while.”
CHAPTER 13
JIM JR. AND MINDY sat finishing their breakfast at the kitchen table while their father talked on the phone with a Camp Nelson detective. They watched him pace the floor, wandering as far away as the phone cord would allow, then retracing his steps. Now and again he would ask a question—So he’s not local? How long has he been out? But he hasn’t confessed?—then nod intently while he listened to the answers.
“Sounds like they caught the guy who shot Mommy,” Jim Jr. said.
“Shush,” Mindy told him.
She walked over to her father and whispered, “Daddy, what is it?”
“Can you hold on a second?” Jim said into the receiver.
“Why don’t you kids wait for me in the living room?” he said. “The cartoons should be on now.”
“But Daddy—”
“I’ll be right there.”
Mindy stayed put. Jim Jr. pretended not to hear.
“Now!” Jim said.
The children walked away at a snail’s pace. Jim returned to his call.
“Just so I’m clear,” he said, “you have made a formal arrest?”
“Yes sir, we have,” Wylie confirmed.
“So you’re confident it was this Beauchamp who killed Bonnie?”
“He wouldn’t be in jail otherwise. Still, I’m not the judge or jury.”
“And all you’ve got is a fingerprint?”
“We also have an eyewitness, Mr. Hood. One who seems to be getting stronger and remembering more every day.”
“You mean the man who was sleeping with my wife?”
Wylie let the question pass.
“I’ll be in touch when we know more,” he said. “Meanwhile, feel free to call me any time.”
Jim found Mindy and Jim Jr. sitting at attention on the couch, both of them too eager to speak or move. He crouched on the floor in front of them, put one hand on Mindy’s arm and the other on Jim Jr.’s knee.
“I’ve got big news,” he said. “They’ve arrested the man who killed your mother,” he said.
“Told you!” Jim Jr. said.
Mindy ignored her brother.
“Who?” she asked. “Who is he?”
“Yeah, who is he?” Jim Jr. echoed.
Jim hesitated, not sure how much he should share or withhold.
“A man named Bruce Beauchamp,” he said.
“Yeah, but who is he?” Mindy insisted.
“I don’t really know,” Jim said. “At least I don’t know much. He’s a construction worker. He’s been in prison before.”
“Are you going to kill him?” Jim Jr. asked, his voice full of hope.
“Ask a real question,” Mindy said.
“That is a real question.”
“No it isn’t. The man’s in jail already. You know Daddy can’t kill him in jail.”
“He could if—”
“Kids, kids,” Jim interrupted. “No arguing, please.”
They were quiet for a moment, as though arguing were their only means of communication, and then, to Jim’s surprise, they began asking many of the same questions he’d asked Wylie.
“Why?” Jim Jr. wanted to know. “Why did he do it?”
“Did he know Mommy?” Mindy asked.
“Was he mad at her?”
Jim shook his head.
“I wish I had answers for you,” he said. “I never heard of this man before.”
“But he must have had a reason,” Jim Jr. insisted.
“Bad guys have all kinds of reasons,” Jim said. “They aren’t always personal. Maybe he wanted to rob Mommy, and she wouldn’t let him.”
The explanation sounded lame to him, but he had nothing better to offer.
“How do the police know it was him?” Jim Jr. asked.
“Because of his fingerprints,” Jim said. “They found them nearby.”
“But did he say he did it?” Mindy asked.
“No. At least not yet.”
“So there’s just fingerprints?” Mindy pressed. “What if they have to let him go?”
Her eyes were welling up, and her voice sounded panicked. Jim Jr. seemed to catch her fear.
“No, no, no, sweetie,” Jim said. “Fingerprints are—”
“What if they let him go and he gets in his car and comes looking for us?” Mindy asked.
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Why not? If he wanted to kill Mommy, he must want to kill us, too.”
Jim sucked i
n a long breath. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so powerless to calm his own children.
“That’s not how it works,” he said. “Besides, the police won’t let him go. They have more than fingerprints. They have an eyewitness. Someone who saw the man do it.”
“Why didn’t the witness stop him?” Jim Jr. asked.
“He tried,” Jim said. “I have to give him that much. He tried.”
CHAPTER 14
Six Months Later
RUDY TOOK THE stand wearing a V-neck sweater and a collared shirt. The tip of a long and jagged surgical scar crept out from beneath his hairline, but otherwise he appeared fully recovered. Beauchamp sat beside his lawyer at the defendant’s table, doodling in a legal pad. Jim couldn’t say what made him more uncomfortable: having to keep his gaze on Rudy, the man who’d slept with his wife, for however long this cross examination would take; sitting just a few yards away from Beauchamp, the man who’d murdered his wife; or spending day after day sandwiched between his in-laws, who barely spoke to him.
The prosecutor had finished tossing softball questions at Rudy, and now it was the defense’s turn. John Cotzee, Beauchamp’s public defender, stood and scanned the jury, then stepped forward. He and his client were a study in contrasts. Beauchamp looked like Paul Bunyan stuffed into a double-breasted suit, while Cotzee was maybe five nine and weighed no more than 150 pounds. Beauchamp, in his late forties, still had a full head of wiry red hair; Cotzee, barely thirty, shaved his head to the bone. Beauchamp struggled to make eye contact and always appeared on the verge of blushing; Cotzee looked like the kid who was picked last for every team sport, but he had a sharp tongue and had already made several of the state’s expert witnesses seem like stammering amateurs. Rudy was visibly rattled.
“Mr. Manuel,” Cotzee started, “let’s cut straight to the chase: you’d been drinking on the night you were shot and Mrs. Hood was killed, isn’t that right?”