I missed Bill. He’d become my closest friend. He chaperoned me for 14 months. He cut me loose at the perfect moment of impasse. He sent me away with my mother and my unresolved claim.
I didn’t nail up my corkboards at home. I didn’t need to. She was always there with me.
Orange Coast came out. Orange Coast was an Orange County rag. The piece was good. They ran our 1-800 number. We got five calls. Two psychics called. Three people called and wished us good luck.
The holidays ended. A TV producer called me. She worked for the Unsolved Mysteries show. She knew all about the Ellroy-Stoner quest. She wanted to do a segment on the Jean Ellroy case. They would dramatize that Saturday night and include a plea for specific information. The show solved crimes. Old people watched the show. Old cops watched the show. They had their own tip-line number and operators on duty 24 hours a day. They reran their episodes in the summer. They FedExed all their tips to the victim’s next-of-kin and the lead investigating detective.
I said yes. The producer said they wanted to shoot the actual locations. I said I’d fly out. I called Bill and told him the news. He said it was a fabulous break. I said we had to densify our segment. We had to saturate it with details on my mother’s life. I wanted people to call in and say, “I knew that woman.”
The Wagners might see the show. They might assail the portrait of my mother. She sent her son to church. Her son cashed in on her death. He turned her into a cheap femme fatale. He was a boyhood con artist. He was a character assassin now. He defamed his mother. He totaled up the balance sheet of her life incorrectly and gave the world a faulty accounting. He staked his claim of ownership on skewed memories and his worthless father’s lies. He egregiously misrepresented his mother for all fucking time.
I went back to that dark bedroom and the food court epiphany. The new memory balance. Bill’s implication. The exclusive bond that I would not sever. The Wagners might see the show. They never saw or never reacted to the book I dedicated to my mother. They were midwestern stiffs. They weren’t media hip. They might have sailed past me in newspapers and magazines. Leoda underestimated me. I hated her for it. I wanted to rub my real-life mother in her face and say, See how she was and see how I revere her anyway. She could cut me down with a few stern words. She could say, You didn’t talk to us. You didn’t trace your mother back to Tunnel City, Wisconsin. You based your portrait on insufficient data.
I didn’t want to go back yet. I didn’t want to break the bond. I did not want to disturb the core of sex that still defined it. Dead people belong to the live people who claim them most obsessively. She was all mine.
They filmed our segment in four days. They shot Bill and me at the El Monte Station. I re-enacted the moment at the evidence vault. I opened a plastic bag and pulled out a silk stocking.
It wasn’t the stocking. Somebody twisted up an old stocking and knotted it. I didn’t pick up a simulated sash cord. We omitted the two-ligature detail.
The director praised my performance. We shot the scene fast.
The crew was great. They were up for some laughs. The shoot played like a party in Jean Ellroy’s honor.
I met the actor who portrayed the Swarthy Man. He called me Little Jimmy. I called him Shitbird. He was lean and mean. He looked like the Identi-Kit portraits. I met the actress who portrayed my mother. I called her Mom. She called me Son. She had red hair. She looked more Hollywood than rural Wisconsin. I kidded her. I said, “Don’t go out chasing men while I’m gone this weekend.” She said, “Buzz off, Jimmy—I need some action!” Mom and Swarthy came to laugh. We got some good shtick going. Bill showed up every day. He had a total blast.
They shot the Desert Inn sequence at a sleazy cocktail lounge in Downey. The set looked anachronistic. I met the actress who portrayed the Blonde. She was skanky bar bait personified. The Swarthy Man was dressed to kill. He wore a nubby silk-jacket-and-slacks combo. My mother wore a mock-up of the dress they found her in.
They filmed the three-way dynamic. The Swarthy Man looked evil. My mother looked too healthy. The Blonde hit the right skank chord. I wanted a noir vignette. They shot a faithful expository scene.
We moved down the street to Harvey’s Broiler. I saw 20 vintage cars lined up. Harvey’s Broiler was Stan’s Drive-in. A bit actress was set to sling trays and portray Lavonne Chambers.
The Swarthy Man and my mother got in a ’55 Olds. Lavonne brought them menus. They were miked up and ready to act. The producer gave me headphones. I listened to their dialogue and some random chitchat. Swarthy made a real-life play for my mom.
They shot the murder at the real location. The crew commandeered Arroyo High School. They brought in camera trucks, sound trucks, a catering truck and a wardrobe van. Some locals strolled by. I counted 32 people at one point.
They set up arc lights. King’s Row went hallucinogenic. The ’55 Olds pulled up. A chaste murder prelude and a simulated murder occurred. I watched the prelude and the murder and the body dump 25 times. It wasn’t painful. I was a murder pro now. I was more than a victim’s son and less than a homicide detective.
They shot two scenes at my old house. They paid Geno Guevara a site fee. I met the actor who played me as a kid. He looked like me at age ten. He wore clothes like I wore on 6/22/58.
The El Monte PD blocked off Bryant and Maple. The crew dressed the street with three vintage cars. Chief Clayton showed up. Spectators gathered. A 1950s cab materialized. The director rehearsed the Ellroy kid and the cop who gave him the news.
They blocked out the arrival scene. The cab pulled up. The boy got out. The cop told him his mother was dead. Thirty or forty people watched.
They shot and reshot the scene. The word went around. I was the kid in the cab half a lifetime ago. People pointed to me. People waved.
They shot a domestic scene in my old kitchen. The kitchen was dressed up ’50s style. My mother wore a white uniform. I wore my arrival outfit. My mother called me into the kitchen and told me to eat my dinner. I crashed into a chair and ignored my food. It was wholesome TV fare. Bill said they should have shot me looking down my mother’s dress.
We broke for lunch. A catering truck arrived. A grip set up service for 20 on Geno Guevara’s front lawn. The buffet line stretched out to the street. Some local yokels grabbed plates and crashed the party.
I sat down beside a total stranger. I sent a prayer out to the redhead. I said, This is for you.
28
The party ended. I went home. Our segment was scheduled for 3/22/96.
Bill and I top-loaded our interviews. We stressed Airtek. We stressed my mother’s maiden name and “Jean” as short for “Geneva.” We were pros now. We talked in sound bites. We had a shot at a huge audience. We wanted to stimulate and provoke them with perfectly precise and simply stated details.
She was out there. I felt her. I spent a month in calm anticipation. I bypassed the Blonde and the Swarthy Man. She was out there. People would call and say they knew her.
Bill was back in Orange County. He was working with Joe Walker. They were gearing up for names. The show would give us an unprecedented shitload of names. Local names. Names nationwide. Informants’ names and potential Blonde and Swarthy Man names. Names to verify and run for criminal records. Names to contact and discard and scrutinize and compare to other names and dismiss from the standpoint of pure lunacy.
Names.
Her ex-lovers. Her ex-colleagues. Her ex-confidantes. The people who glimpsed her flight pattern.
Names.
Bill was ready for them. He gave Joe Walker a backup mandate.
Check official records. Follow paper trails and raid data banks. Take us from Tunnel City to El Monte.
Joe said he’d check marriage and divorce records. Bill said he’d check directory listings. He said we should go to Wisconsin. I said, Not yet. He wanted to jump my claim. I wanted to plunder our new names and reinforce it.
I watched the show at home. Bill watched it at the studio phone center. Louie Da
noff joined him. They hung out with some cops from other segments.
The setup was space age. A dozen operators worked the phones and typed their tips on computer screens simultaneously. The cops could read the screens and listen to hot calls on headsets. Tipsters called fast. They saw the show. They recognized suspects. They recognized lost loved ones or old acquaintances. They called because a segment tugged their heartstrings. They called because a segment fucked with their heads.
I watched the show with Helen. The Jean Ellroy segment was boffo. It was the best show since Robbie Beckett Live. Robert Stack narrated. I saw him and laughed out loud. I caddied for him a few times at Bel-Air Country Club. The dramatic scenes were vivid. The director hit a nice balance. He understood viewer demographics. The murder was spooky and no more. It would not offend old people or shock potential tipsters unduly. I was good. Bill was good. Robert Stack stressed the Airtek connection. The proper information went out. The proper pictures of my mother and the Swarthy Man went out. The story was simply and properly told.
The phones rang.
A man from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, called. He said the Swarthy Man looked like a guy named Bob Sones. Bob murdered his wife, Sherry, and committed suicide. It was late ’58. The crime occurred in North Hollywood. A man from Centralia, Washington, called. He said his father was the Swarthy Man. His father was 6′6″ and weighed 240 pounds. His father carried a gun and lots of ammunition. A man from Savage, Minnesota, called. He said the Swarthy Man looked like his father. His father lived in El Monte back then. His father was abusive. His father served prison time. His father was a gambler and a skirt chaser. A man from Dallas, Texas, called. He said the Swarthy Man looked familiar. He looked like his neighbor a long time ago. The guy had a blond wife. He drove a blue-and-white Buick. A man from Rochester, New York, called. He said his grandfather was the Swarthy Man. Gramps lived in a nursing home. The man supplied the address and phone number. A woman from Sacramento, California, called. She said the Swarthy Man looked like a local doctor. The doctor lived with his mother. The doctor hated women. The doctor was a vegetarian. A woman from Lakeport, California, called. She said the Swarthy Man looked like her ex-husband. Her ex chased women. She didn’t know where he was now. A woman from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, called. She said her sister was murdered. She said she read a lot of crime novels. A woman from Covina, California, called. She said her sister was raped and strangled in El Monte. It happened in 1992. A man from Huntingdon Beach, California, called. He said he wanted to talk to Bill Stoner. Bill came on the line. The man hung up. A woman from Paso Robles, California, called. She said the Swarthy Man looked familiar. She met a man like that in 1957. He wanted sex. She said no. He said he wanted to kill her. He lived in Alhambra then. A man from Los Angeles, California, called. He said his grandmother knew Jean Ellroy. They were friends. His grandmother lived in Orange County.
The operator waved Bill over. Bill checked her computer screen. The operator told the man to hold please. The man hung up.
The Black Dahlia lady called. She said her father killed Jean Ellroy and the Black Dahlia. A woman from Los Angeles, California, called. She said the Swarthy Man looked like her father. Her father died in August ’58. A woman from Los Angeles, California, called. She said the Blonde looked familiar. She knew a couple in the late ’50s. The husband was Italian. The wife was blond. He worked at a missile range. She worked at a dance studio. His name was Wally. Her name was Nita. A woman from Phoenix, Arizona, called. She said the Swarthy Man looked like her dead uncle. He lived in L.A. in 1958. A woman from Pinetop, Arizona, called. She said the Swarthy Man looked like a swarthy boy that she knew. The Swarthy Boy was 16 in 1958. A woman from Saginaw, Michigan, called. She said the Swarthy Man looked like her ex-husband. Her ex vanished. She didn’t know where he was. A woman from Tucson, Arizona, called. She said she was a psychologist. She said James Ellroy was very angry. He relived his mother’s death to punish himself. He wasn’t there for her. He felt guilty. He needed treatment. A woman from Cartwright, Oklahoma, called. She said the Swarthy Man looked like her mother’s ex-husband. He raped her and tried to kill her mother. He was a devil. He was a truck driver. He drove Buicks. He picked up women and taunted her mother. She didn’t know if he was still alive. A woman from Benwood, West Virginia, called. She said a man stalked her and her brother in Los Angeles. She was six years old. The man had dark hair and good teeth. He drove a truck. He took off her clothes, fondled her and kissed her. She saw him on a TV game show several years later. It might have been the Groucho Marx show. A woman from Westminster, Maryland, called. She said the Swarthy Man looked like a man named Larry. Larry was 40 now. The Swarthy Man might be his father. A man from New Boston, Texas, called. He said his wife’s uncle moved to Texas in 1958. He looked like the Swarthy Man. He was a child molester. He died ten years ago. He was buried in Comway, Arkansas.
We tanked. We logged in jive and innuendo. The show was a family show. We logged in some family trauma. No Airtek people called. No ex-cops called. No ex-lovers, ex-colleagues or ex-confidantes called. The Wagners didn’t call. The one hot caller hung up. I felt like a pussy-whipped chump. I was stood up, cuckolded and jilted. I’m waiting by the phone. I’m waiting for a special woman or any woman to call.
The producer said we’d get more calls. Bill had all the tip sheets and callback numbers. He checked out the Bob and Sherry Sones tip. He couldn’t find a case listing. He called the woman in Paso Robles. They discussed the Swarthy Dude from Alhambra. The Swarthy Dude was too young. He couldn’t be the Swarthy Man. The tip was a dud. All our tips were duds.
More tips came in. Bill and I got tip sheets via FedEx.
A man from Alexandria, Virginia, called. He said the Swarthy Man looked like his brother. His brother was 6V and rangy. He did time at Chino State Prison. A man from Espanola, New Mexico, called. He said he lived in El Monte in 1961. The Swarthy Man looked very familiar. A woman from Jackson, Mississippi, called. She said her father killed a person in 1958. He did time at Alcatraz. He had tattoos on his right forearm and no right index finger. He tried to kill her mother. He drove a blue Chevy. The Black Dahlia lady called. She said her father killed my mother and the Black Dahlia. A woman from Virginia Beach, Virginia, called. She said she knew the Swarthy Man. He worked at the Lynn Haven Mall in Lynn Haven, Virginia.
A woman from La Puente called. Her name was Barbara Grover. She said she was Ellis Outlaw’s ex-sister-in-law. Ellis was married to Alberta Low Outlaw. Ellis and Alberta were dead. Barbara Grover was married to Alberta’s brother Reuben. He looked like the Swarthy Man. He was a drunk and a pervert. He hung out at the Desert Inn. He was murdered in L.A. in 1974.
Bill called Barbara Grover. She said Reuben hung out at Stan’s Drive-in. He had mastoid surgery once. He developed a thin jawline like that swarthy guy.
Bill met Barbara Grover in person. She said she met Reuben Low in 1951. He was 24. She was 16. He was dating her mother. He dropped her mother. He took up with her. They got married on 5/10/53. Her mother lived with them. Reuben had sex with her mother. Reuben abused them. Reuben bought cars and blew off the payments. Reuben was brutal. He tried to kill her with a beer bottle once. He liked guns and cars. He chased women. He had strange sexual tastes. He came home with scratches on his face all the time. He hated to work. He serviced vending machines sometimes. He lost the tip of his right index finger in a shop accident. She left Reuben in the early ’60s. He got killed 10 or 12 years later. He was living in South L.A. He was walking home from a liquor store. Two black kids robbed him and shanked him.
Reuben never said he killed a woman. The Outlaws never told her he did. Maybe he killed Jean Ellroy. Maybe the Outlaws knew it. Maybe they protected him.
Barbara Grover showed Bill a picture. The young Reuben Low looked like a young Swarthy Man. He looked hillbilly. He didn’t look Latin. His missing fingertip stood out.
Bill called LAPD Homicide. A friend pulled the Reuben Low file. The DOD was 1/27/74. The killers were cap
tured and convicted.
Bill and I discussed Reuben Low. I said Margie Trawick would have known him. He was a Desert Inn habitué. He had a deformity. Bill said Hallinen and Lawton would have nailed him. They probably leaned on him and exonerated him.
We crossed him off our suspect list. He was the only motherfucker on our suspect list.
We got another tip via FedEx. A man from Somerset, California, called. His name was Dan Jones. He said he worked at Airtek in 1957. He knew my mother. He liked her. He had a picture of her.
Bill called Dan Jones. He said Jean went by “Hilliker” at Airtek. He said he left Airtek in early ’58. He never talked to the cops. He didn’t know who Jean was dating.
He gave Bill some Airtek names. Bill ran them statewide. He found eleven Airtek people in Southern California.
Dan Jones sent me four color snapshots. I time-traveled back to Christmas ’57.
The Airtek Christmas party.
Everybody was drinking. Everybody was smoking. Everybody was having a blast. My mother appeared in one photograph.
She was standing by the bar. She was wearing a white uniform and a hip-length windbreaker. I couldn’t see her face. I recognized her legs and hands. She was holding a drink and a cigarette. A man was leaning in to kiss her. His left hand was poised near her right breast.
Bill interviewed the Airtek people. Most of them remembered my mother. Bill wrote up the interviews and sent them to me. The details sent me airborne.
Airtek was Romance City. Airtek people worked hard and parried twice as hard. People came to Airtek. They caught the Airtek virus and ditched their wives and husbands. The Airtek virus was hot. It was the boogie-woogie flu. Airtek had a wife-swapping coven. Jean split Packard-Bell and came to Airtek. Ruth Schienle and Margie Stipp came too. Margie was dead now. Ruth disappeared. Jean was a beautiful lady. She drank too much. She knew it. She drank too much by Airtek standards. Airtek standards were very permissive. She drank at Julie’s Restaurant near the Coliseum. She dawdled over lunchtime drinks. Nick Zaha worked at Airtek. He had a thing going with Jean. Airtek men drank hard. Jean gave them B-I shots for their hangovers. The Airtek kids staged a wake for Jean. They played the Johnny Mathis tune “Chances Are” over and over. Jean got drunk at an Airtek party and rode a forklift platform up to the top of the main warehouse ceiling. Jean told a guy that another guy was giving her grief. She didn’t mention his name. She got killed a week later. Will Miller worked at Airtek. He was some nice guy. An Airtek guy went to Europe two weeks before the murder. Jean asked him to send her a bottle of Chanel No. 5. Jean was nice. Jean worked hard. Jean’s red hair sparkled behind three bourbon highballs.