The kid did Youth Authority time, and he got paroled. He split the San Gabriel Valley. He pulled a postgrad rape here in Kern County.
We hit Fresno at dinnertime. It was too late to hit Betty’s parents. We booked three hotel rooms and ate at a chain coffee shop. Angus reprised his travelogue. I drifted in and out of it. I had the kid in my brain-sights.
Bud Bedford lived in a trailer park between two freeway ramps. His trailer was small and dirty inside and out.
He lived with his long-term girlfriend and a small, bug-eyed dog. The dog perched on his wife’s lap and showed Bill his teeth. He stared at Bill and sustained a low growl throughout the whole interview.
Bill and I flanked Bud Bedford. Bill laid out the investigation and emphatically cleared Betty’s husband. Bud Bedford stared at a neutral point between us. He sucked on a cigar stub and took the smoke in deep. His girlfriend stared at him. The dog stared at Bill.
Bedford was seventy-something. His hands twitched. His face twitched. He looked frail and nihilistically inclined. A good blast of cigar smoke could debilitate or kill him.
He did not react to Bill’s pitch in any discernible manner.
I said, “Tell me about BettyJean.”
Bedford said, “She was a good girl and a good mother.”
I said, “What else can you tell us?”
Bedford said, “She shouldn’t have got mixed up with Bill Scales.”
I backed off. My questions were taking me nowhere. I wanted perceptive or passionate answers. I wanted to know if Betty Jean still lived in her father’s mind and if he fought to keep her there.
Bill took over. He asked specific questions and let Bedford ramble. I listened for signs of fatherly love in the mix.
He broke up with Betty’s mom when Betty was 8 or 9. They fought some custody battles. She got Betty first. He got her second. Bill Scales married her. Bill was plain no-good. He was scared that Bud would get custody of the kids he had with Betty. He hid them with his sister so Bud couldn’t see them. Bud hired a private eye. He wanted to get the goods on Bill Scales. The P.I. infiltrated a bike gang Scales allegedly rode with. Bud paid him $500. The guy took his money and never turned up shit.
Scales was no outlaw biker He was an amateur motorcycle racer.
The monologue winded Bedford. His voice broke a few times. I didn’t know if he was fighting emotion or exhaustion. I didn’t know if he was reliving the loss of his daughter or the weight of his hardscrabble years.
I didn’t bring up my murder story. I tried to get some empathy going with Betty Jean’s daughter and got nowhere. That interview went nowhere. I didn’t want a repeat here.
Bud Bedford hated Bill Scales. It felt like a property beef. He ceded his daughter to the man who he thought killed her or let her die. Ownership infractions. Bud set Betty up in her own pad and cut off the rent when he caught her in bed with some guy. Bill Scales assumed ownership then.
Bill got out his mouth swabs and explained the procedure. Bud Bedford put his cigar down and rinsed his mouth with water. He took a swab and ran it-all over his gums.
I thanked the Bedfords and walked to the door. The dog growled at me.
Betty’s mother was named Lavada Emogene Nella. She lived in a board-and-care home in middle-class Fresno.
Bill called ahead. Mrs. Nella and her companion met us. We sat down in the dayroom. Old people on walkers pushed by.
Mrs. Nella was attractive and perfectly groomed. She was young and fit by rest-home standards.
Her eyes darted and latched onto fixed targets and went blank while she retained eye contact.
I said, “Tell me about Betty Jean.”
Mrs. Nella called her daughter a “chatterbox” and a “homebody” and a “sweet-natured girl” who “only wanted to be a good wife and mother.” Things tended to confuse Betty Jean. She was outgoing and shy at the same time. She relied on other folks to make her decisions.