“Landscapes?”
Julie Kipper’s pretty pictures.
Diane Petrello said, “Anything pretty. It seemed to calm her down. But not always. Nothing really worked when she was all wound up.”
“She could be pretty agitated,” said Milo.
“But she never caused problems.”
“She have any friends here at Dove House?”
“Not really, no.”
“Anyone on the outside?”
“Not that I ever saw.”
“She talk about any outside friends?”
Petrello shook her head.
Milo said, “Specifically, ma’am, I’d be interested in a young man in his early twenties. Tall, thin, dark hair, bad skin, eyeglasses.”
Petrello looked at Witherspoon. They both shook their heads.
Witherspoon said, “Is he the one who did this?”
“We don’t know if anyone did anything, sir. What else can you tell us about Ms. Murphy?”
“That’s all I can think of,” said Petrello. “She was so alone. Like so many of them. That’s the main problem, really. Aloneness. Without Divine Grace, all of us are alone.”
Milo asked if we could show Erna Murphy’s picture to the other residents, and Darryl Witherspoon frowned.
Diane Petrello said, “There are only six women in residence this week.”
“Any men?” said Milo.
“There are eight men.”
Witherspoon said, “It’s been a tough couple of weeks, everyone we’ve got is kind of fragile. Those pictures you showed me would be too much.”
Milo said, “How about this: no picture, we just talk. And you come along to make sure we do it right.”
Another glance passed between Witherspoon and Petrello. He said, “Guess so. But at the first sign of trouble, we quit, okay?”
Witherspoon returned to his desk as Milo and I trailed Diane Petrello up a flight of protesting stairs. The upper floors were divided into single rooms that lined a long, bright, turquoise hallway. Women were housed on the second floor, men on the third. Each room was set up with two bunk beds. Bibles on the pillow, a tiny portable closet, more religious posters.
Half of the residents were sleepy. Erna Murphy’s name elicited only blank looks until a young, dark-haired woman named Lynnette with the face of a fashion model and old needle tracks in the crooks of her pipe-stem arms, said, “Big Red.”
“You know her?”
“Roomed with her a couple of times.” Lynnette’s eyes were huge and black and wounded. Her hair was long and dark and greasy. A tattooed star the size of a sheriff’s badge decorated the left side of her neck. A vein ran through the center of the body art, pulsing the blue ink. Slow pulse, steady, unperturbed. She sat on the edge of a lower bunk, Bible at one arm, bag of Fritos at the other. Her back curved like that of an old woman. The downturn of her mouth said she’d given up on personal safety. “What happened to her?”
“I’m afraid she’s dead, ma’am.”
Lynnette’s pulse remained sluggish. Then her eyes drooped with amusement.
Milo said, “Something funny, ma’am.”
Lynnette shot him a crooked grin. “Only thing funny is ‘ma’am.’ So what, someone offed her?”
“We’re not sure.”
“Maybe her boyfriend did it.”
“What boyfriend would that be?”
“Don’t know. She just told me she had one and that he was real smart.”
“When did she tell you this?” said Milo.
Lynnette scratched her arm. “Had to be a long time ago.” To Petrello: “Had to be not the last time I was here, maybe a few times before that?”
“Months,” said Petrello.
“I been traveling,” said Lynnette. “Had to be months.”
“Traveling,” said Milo.
Lynnette smiled. “Seeing the U.S.A. Yeah, had to be months—could be six, seven, dunno. I just remember it cause I thought it was bullshit. Cause like who’d want her? She was a skank.”
“You didn’t like her.”
“What was to like?” said Lynnette. “She was a whack job, would start off having a conversation with you, then space out, start walking around, talking to herself.”
“What else did she say about this boyfriend?” said Milo.
“Just that.”
“Smart.”
“Yeah.”
“No name?”
“Nope.”
Milo stepped closer to the bed. Diane Petrello interposed herself between him and Lynnette, and he retreated. “If there’s anything you can tell us about the boyfriend, I’d greatly appreciate it.”
Lynnette said, “I don’t know nothin’.” A second later: “She said he was smart, that’s it. Bragging on herself. Like, he’s smart so I’m smart. She said he was gonna come take her out of here.” She puffed her lips. “Right.”