Stacey was in a private room, looking out on a darkened residential street. He seemed to be sleeping, his hospital bed elevated at a forty-five-degree angle. Poking out from under his red-knit watch cap were wisps of ginger-colored hair. Two get-well cards were propped upright along the wide windowsill, but there was nothing else of a personal nature. The television screen was blank. On his rolling bed table, there were a pile of magazines and a paper cup filled with melting ice.
Dolan paused in the doorway. Stacey’s eyes came open. He waved and then pushed himself up on the bed. “I see you made it,” he said, and then to me, “You must be Kinsey. Nice to meet you.” I leaned forward and shook his hand. His grip was strong and hot, almost as though he were metabolizing at twice the normal rate.
While Dolan went about the business of rounding up chairs from opposite corners of the room, I said, “I believe you knew the guys who trained me—Morley Shine and Ben Byrd.”
“I knew them well. Both good men. I was sorry to hear about Morley’s murder. That was a hell of a thing. Have a seat.”
“Thanks.”
Dolan offered me one chair and settled in the other. While the two of them chatted, I studied Stacey. He had small mild blue eyes, pale brows, and a long, deeply creased face. His color was good, though it looked as though he hadn’t shaved for days. He seemed to be in good spirits and he spoke with all the vigor of an active man.
After some preliminary conversation, Dolan brought the subject around to the Jane Doe investigation. “I gave Kinsey the file to read. We thought we should talk about where we go from here. The doc still talking about letting you out tomorrow?”
“Looks that way.”
The two of them chatted about the case while I kept my mouth shut. I don’t know why I’d expected Stacey to resist Dolan’s proposition, but he didn’t seem at all opposed to our resurrecting the case. He said to Dolan, “Speaking of which, Frankie Miracle got out. His parole officer, Dench Smallwood, called me and said Frankie found a place in town. By now, he probably has legitimate employment.”
“That’d be a first.”
I said, “How does Frankie Miracle fit in? I remember his name from the file.”
Dolan said, “He got picked up in Lompoc August 1, two days before Jane Doe’s body was found. We always figured he was good for it, though he denied it.”
Stacey spoke up. “He killed his girlfriend in Venice, July 29, during a meth binge. He stabbed the woman umpteen times, then he helped himself to her car and all her credit cards and started driving north. She was found a couple days later when neighbors complained about the smell.”
“Dumb-ass signed her name to the charge slips every time he stopped for gas,” Dolan said. “You’d think someone would notice a ‘Cathy Lee Pearse’ with no boobs, a mustache, and a two-day growth of beard.” He shifted in his chair and then rose to his feet. “You two go on and get acquainted. Time for me to step outside and grab a smoke.”
Once Dolan left, I said, “You have a theory why Jane Doe was never identified?”
“No. We expected a quick match, someone who’d recognize her from the description in the papers. All I can think is she wasn’t reported missing. Or maybe the missing-persons report got buried in the paperwork on some cop’s desk. There’s probably an explanation, but who knows what it is? By now, it’s unlikely we’ll ever find out who killed her, but there’s a possibility we can get her ID’d and returned to her folks.”
“What are the chances?”
“Not as bad as you might think. Once enough time passes, people are more willing to speak up. We might tweak someone’s conscience and get a lead that way.” He hesitated, taking a moment to smooth the edges of his sheet. “You know, Con’s wife, Gracie, died a while back.”
“He mentioned that.”
“It hit him hard at the time, but he seemed to be pulling out of it. But ever since he got sidelined with this heart condition, the guy’s been in a funk. As long as Gracie was alive, she seemed to keep him in check, but now his smoking and booze consumption are out of control. I’ve been trying to find a way to get him back on track, so the minute this came up, I jumped on it.”
“You’re talking about Jane Doe?”
“Right. I was happy you agreed to help. It’ll give him a lift. He needs to work.”
I smiled with caution, listening for any hint of irony in his tone. Apparently, he didn’t realize Dolan had voiced the very same concerns about him.
When Dolan returned, he stood looking expectantly from me to Stacey. “So what’s the game plan? You two have it all worked out?”
“We were just talking about that. Kinsey wants to see the crime scene before we do anything else.”
I said, “Right.”
Dolan said, “Great. I’ll set that up for tomorrow.”
3
Dolan picked me up at my place at 10:00 in his 1979 Chevrolet, Stacey in the backseat. He did an expert parallel parking job and got out of the car. He wore a dark blue sweatshirt and a pair of worn blue jeans. The exterior of the Chevy was a mess. By day, I could see that the once-dark brown paint had oxidized, taking on the milky patina of an old Hershey’s bar. The back bumper was askew, the left rear fender was crumpled, and a long indentation on the passenger side rendered the door close to inoperable. I managed to open it by means of a wrenching maneuver that made the metal shriek in protest. Once seated, I hauled, trying to get it shut again. Dolan circled the car, shoved the door shut, and secured the lock by bumping it with his hip.
I said, “Thanks.” Already, I was worried about his prowess at the wheel.
He leaned in the open window and held his hand out to Stacey. “Give me your gun and I’ll lock ’em in the trunk.”
Stacey winced audibly as he torqued to one side, slipping his gun from his holster and passing it to Dolan. Dolan went around to the rear and tucked the guns in the trunk before he got in on his side.
The car’s upholstery was a dingy beige fabric that made it difficult to slide across the seat. I remained where I was as though glued in place. I turned so I could look at Stacey, who was sitting in the backseat with a bed pillow wedged behind him. His red knit watch cap was pulled down almost to his brows. “Threw my back out,” he said by way of explanation. “I was moving boxes last week. I guess I should have done like Mother taught me and lifted with my knees.”
Dolan’s hiking boots were muddy, and waffle-shaped droppings littered the floor mat on his side. He adjusted the rearview mirror to talk to Stacey’s reflection. “You should have left those for me. I told you I’d take care of ’em.”
“Quit acting like a mother hen. I’m not helpless. It’s a muscle pull, that’s all; my sciatica acting up. Even healthy people get hurt, you know. It’s no big deal.”
In the harsh light of day, I could see that, despite the transfusion, his skin had gray undertones, and the smudges beneath his pale brows made his eyes appear to recede. He was dressed for the outdoors, wearing brown cords, hiking boots, a red-plaid wool shirt, and a fisherman’s vest.
“You want to sit up here?”
“I’m better off where I am. I’m never quite sure when I’m going to need to lie down.”
“Well, just let me know if you want to switch places.”
I tugged at my seat belt, which was hung up somewhere. I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to get the mechanism to release a sufficient length of belt so I could clip it into place. Meanwhile, Dolan put the car in gear. The engine coughed and died twice, but finally sputtered back to life, and we were under way. The interior smelled of nicotine and dog. I didn’t picture Dolan as the doggy type, but I didn’t want to ask. The floorboards were strewn with gas receipts, discarded cigarette packs, and assorted cellophane bags that had once contained potato chips, cheese-and-cracker sandwiches, and other heart-healthy snacks.
We gassed up at a service station adjacent to the freeway and then he eased the car out into the traffic, heading north on the 101. As soon as we were settled
at a steady speed, Dolan punched in the car lighter and reached for the pack of Camels he had resting on the dash.
Stacey said, “Hey! Have mercy. You’ve got a cancer patient back here.”
Dolan again angled the rearview mirror so he could see Stacey’s face. “That doesn’t seem to stop you from smoking that pipe of yours.”
“The pipe’s purely recreational. At the rate you smoke, you’ll be dead before me.”
Dolan said, “Nuts,” but left the pack where it was.
Stacey tapped me on the shoulder. “See that? The guy looks after me. You’d never guess that about him.”
Dolan’s smile barely registered, but it softened his face.
After the town of Colgate, the railroad tracks and the highway ran parallel to the ocean. To the north, the Santa Ynez Mountains loomed dark and gray, dense with low-growing vegetation. There were scarcely any trees, and the contours of the foothills were a rolling green. Much of the topography was defined by massive landslides, sandstone and shale debris extending for miles. Dolan and Stacey conducted a conversation that consisted of fishing and hunting stories—endless accounts of all the creatures they’d shot, hooked, trapped, and snagged; gutted, skinned, and toted home. This, with men, passes for a load of fun.
We sped past the state beach park, where camping sites consisted of adjacent oblongs of asphalt that looked suspiciously like parking spaces. I’d seen campers and RVs lined up like piano keys while the occupants set out aluminum picnic tables and chairs, stoking up their portable barbecues in areas much smaller than the yards they had at home. The children would gorge on hot dogs and potato chips, frolic in the ocean, and then bed down in the car, hair sticky, their bodies infused with residual salt like little cod fillets. For Dolan and Stacey, the sight of the line of campers triggered a recollection of another unsolved homicide—two teens shot to death on an isolated stretch of beach. After that, they spent time pointing out the various locations where past homicide victims had been dumped. Santa Teresa County had provided a number of such spots.
A few miles beyond Gull Cove, Dolan took the turnoff and headed west on California 1. I found myself lulled by the passing countryside. Here the hills were undulating, dotted with shaggy masses of the dark green oaks that marched across the land. The skies were pale blue with only the faintest marbling of clouds. The air smelled of the hot, sun-dried pastures sprinkled with buttercups, where occasional cattle grazed.
The two-lane road wound west and north. From time to time, the route cut through irregular, high-arching rock beds. On one of these stretches, thirty-two years before, a mammoth boulder tumbled down the slope, shattering the windshield of my parents’ car as we passed. I was sitting in the rear, playing with my paper doll, scowling because I’d just bent her left cardboard leg at the ankle. I felt a flash of uncontrollable five-year-old rage because her foot looked all crookedy and limp. I was just setting up a howl when one of my parents made a startled exclamation. Perhaps the falling rock was briefly visible on descent, bouncing in a jaunty shower of smaller rocks and dirt. There was no time to react. The force of the boulder smashed through the windshield, crushing my father’s head and chest, killing him instantly. The vehicle veered right, careening out of control, and crashed against the rocky hill face.
The impact flung me forward, wedging me against the driver’s seat. From this confining cage of crumpled metal, I kept my mother company in the last, long moments of her life. I understand now how it must have felt from her perspective. Her injuries were such that there was no way she could move without excruciating pain. She could hear me whimper, but she had no way to know how badly I was hurt. She could see her husband was dead and knew she was not far behind. She wept, keening with regret. After a while, she was quiet, and I remember thinking that was good, not knowing she’d left her body and floated off somewhere.
Dolan swerved to avoid a ground squirrel that had skittered across the pavement in front of us. Instinctively, I put a hand out to brace myself and then I focused on the road again, disconnecting my emotions with all the skill of a vivisectionist. It’s a trick of mine that probably dates back to those early years. I tuned into the conversation, which I realized belatedly had been directed at me.
Dolan was saying, “You with us?”
“Sure. Sorry. I think I missed that.”
“I said, this guy, Frankie Miracle, we talked about last night? He got picked up on a routine traffic stop outside Lompoc. The schmuck had a busted taillight, and when the officers ran the plate, the vehicle came up stolen and wanted by the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. Galloway reads him his rights and throws him in the hoosegow. Meanwhile, the car’s towed to the impound lot. When Galloway sits down to write his report, he reads the APB, indicating the registered owner’s the victim of a homicide. He goes back over to the jail and tells Frankie he’s under arrest for murder and reads him his rights again. Two days after that, Stacey and I go deer hunting and come across the girl.”
“Yeah, if it wasn’t for the taillight, Frankie could’ve been in Oregon and we might not’ve tied him to the situation here.”
“What about the weapon? I don’t remember any mention of it.”
“We never found the knife, but judging from the wounds, the coroner said the blade had to be at least five inches long. Rumor has it, Frankie carried something similar, though he didn’t have it on him when we picked him up.”
Stacey said, “He probably tossed it or buried it. Country up there is rugged. Search and Rescue came through and did a grid search but never turned up anything.” He leaned forward and tapped Con on the shoulder, pointing to a side road going off on our right a hundred yards ahead. “That’s it. Just beyond this bridge coming up.”
“You think? I remember it was farther down, along a stretch of white three-board fence.”
“Oh. Maybe so. You could be right about that.”
Dolan had slowed from forty miles an hour to a cautious fifteen. The two peered over at a two-lane gravel road that cut back at an angle and disappeared from view. It must not have looked familiar because Stacey said, “Nuh-uhn. Try around the next bend. We could have passed it already.” He turned and stared out the rear window.
In the end, Dolan made a U-turn and we circled back, making a second slow pass until they settled on the place. Dolan pulled onto a secondary lane, gravel over cracked asphalt, that followed the contours of a low-lying hill. Directly ahead of us, I could see where the road split to form a Y. A locked gate barred access to the property with its No Trespassing signs. On the near side of the gate and to the right, a Jeep was parked.
“Where’s Grayson Quarry?” I asked, referring to the crime scene as designated on the official police reports.
“Around the bend to the right about a quarter of a mile,” Dolan said. As he edged over on the berm and set the handbrake, an elderly gentleman in jeans, cowboy boots, and a leather hat emerged from the Jeep. He was small and wide, with a full-sized Santa belly pushing at the buttons of his western-style shirt. He approached our car, walking with a decided limp. Dolan cut the engine and got out on his side.
Stacey murmured, “That’s Arne Johanson, the ranch foreman. I called and he agreed to meet us to unlock the gate.”
By the time Stacey eased out of the backseat, I’d emerged from the passenger side and shoved the car door with one hip. Now that Dolan was in the open air, he lit a cigarette.
Stacey moved toward the old man and shook his hand. I noticed he was making an effort to appear energetic. “Mr. Johanson. This is nice of you. I’m Stacey Oliphant with the County Sheriff’s Department. You probably don’t remember, but we met in August of ’69 back when the body was found. This is Lieutenant Con Dolan from Santa Teresa PD. He’s the fellow who was with me. Two of us were up here to hunt when we came across the girl.”
“I thought you looked familiar. Good seeing you.”
“Thanks. We appreciate your help.”
The old man’s gaze drifted in my direct
ion. He seemed puzzled at the sight of me. “Like to see some ID if it’s all the same to you.” This was directed at the guys though his eyes remained on me.
Stacey moved his jacket aside to expose the badge attached to his belt. His badge specified that he was retired, but Johanson didn’t seem to notice and Stacey didn’t feel compelled to call it to his attention. Dolan rolled his cigarette to one corner of his mouth and took out a leather bifold wallet with his badge, which he held up. While Johanson leaned forward and studied it, Dolan took out a business card and handed it to him. Johanson tucked the card in his shirt pocket and glanced at me slyly.
“She’s with us,” Dolan said.
I was perfectly willing to show him a copy of my license, but I liked Dolan’s protectiveness and thought I’d leave well enough alone. This time, when the old man’s eyes returned to mine, I looked away. I pegged him as a throwback, some old reprobate who believed women belonged in the kitchen, not out in the “real” world going toe to toe with men. He had to be in his eighties. His eyes were small, a watery blue. His face was sun-toughened, deeply creased, and bristling with whiskers that showed white against his leathery skin. He shifted his attention to Dolan’s cigarette. “I’d watch that if I was you. It’s fire country up here.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Johanson took out a set of keys and the four of us walked over to the metal rail gate with its ancient padlock. His stride had a rocking motion that suggested an old injury. Maybe in his youth he’d worked the rodeo circuit. He selected a key, turned it in the padlock, and popped it off the hasp. He pushed the sagging gate aside, forcing it back to a point where it was anchored in the grass. The four of us passed through, Dolan and Stacey leading while I tagged behind them and Johanson brought up the rear.
“It was two cops who found her, coming here to hunt,” he said, having either missed or forgotten the reference Stacey’d made to their prior meeting.
Dolan grunted a response, which didn’t seem to discourage the old man’s garrulousness. “We got wild boar on the property. Owner lets hunters come in now and then to cull the herd. Boars is aggressive. I’ve had ’em turn and charge right at me, gash a hole in my leg. Mean sons a bitches, I can tell you that. Peckers like razor blades is what I heard. Mating season, the female sets up a squeal brings the hair right up on the back of your neck.”