“Yes it is,” said Milo. “So she didn’t have any pals at all?”
“Not that I saw. She always seemed like work, work, work. Nice, but work, work, work. Hope you solve it.”
She reached for the phone. Milo said, “Pardon me, ma’am. Just one more thing I’m curious about.”
Her hand rested on the receiver. “What’s that?”
“The guy who took us around-Hatterson. What’s he in for?”
“Oh, him,” she said. “Why, was there some kind of problem?”
“No. Does he cause problems?”
She snorted. “Not hardly.”
“The reason I’m asking is, he didn’t seem very crazy. I’m just wondering what kind of guy gets to be a tour guide.”
“Phil,” she said, pronouncing the name with distaste. “Phil raped a child so bad she needed reconstructive surgery.”
6.
FRANK DOLLARD WAS waiting for us, outside. He walked us across the yard without comment. Giant Chet stood in a corner, staring at chain link. Sharbno the urinator was gone. A few men palsied, a few men sat in the dirt. The sun was even hotter.
Dollard waited as we retrieved Milo’s gun and my knife. The outer gate swung open.
Milo said, “Let me ask you a question, Frank. A guy like Hatterson-in prison he’d be lunch meat.”
Dollard smiled. “So what’s his status here? Low. Same as everyone. For all I know, the other guys don’t even know what he did. They don’t care much about each other-that’s the point. They’re not connected.”
Driving through the eucalyptus grove, Milo began to laugh.
“What?” I said.
“How’s this for a story line: we catch the bad guy; he’s some joker they let out by mistake. He pleads insanity, ends up right back here.”
“Sell it to Hollywood-no, not stupid enough.”
We left the grove, passed into white light. “Then again, you tell me our boy probably doesn’t act or look crazy, so maybe I should forget about this place.”
“My guess is our boy is probably more like a fifth-floor resident.”
“So do I bother looking for a recently released Starkweather alum? And what’s with that group Claire ran? Why do low-functioning guys need daily living skills? Unless she had a notion some of them would end up on the outside.”
“Maybe it was altruism,” I said. “Misguided or otherwise. Heidi Ott might be able to shed some light on it. She’d also be able to tell you if any of Claire’s patients have been released recently.”
“Yeah, she’s definitely high on my list. Tough kid, the way she handled that Ralph
guy. Can you imagine a female coming in here, day in and day out?” He drove off
Starkweather Drive and back onto the connecting road. The bare gray acreage appeared, then the first of the packing plants, gigantic and soot-stained. Behind the shadowy columns, the blue sky seemed like an insult.
Milo said, “I’m neglecting basic detective dogma: Lay your foundation. Get to know the vie. Trouble is, I’m getting the same feeling about Claire that I did about
Dada. Grabbing air. She lived alone, no obvious kinks so far, no pals I can locate, no local family. You heard the way everyone at Starkweather described her: nice, did her job, stayed to herself. Offended no one. Richard’s spiritual sister. So what do we have here, a psychopath who goes after inoffensive people?”
“Assuming the cases are related, maybe someone who goes after lonely people.”
“Then half of L.A.’s at risk.”
“Where is Claire’s family?”
“Pittsburgh. Just her parents-she was an only child.” He chewed his cheek. “I did the notification call. You know the drill: I ruin their lives, they cry, I listen.
They’re coming out this week; maybe I’ll get more than I did over the phone, which was: Claire had no enemies, terrific daughter, wonderful girl. They’re always wonderful girls.”
We cut through industrial wasteland. Mounds of rotting machinery, slag heaps, muddy trenches, planes of greasy dirt. Under a gray sky, it could have passed for hell.
Today, it just looked like something you kept from the voting public.
Milo wasn’t noticing the scenery. Both his hands were back on the wheel, tight-knuckled, white.
“Lonely people,” he said. “Let me show you her house.”
He drove much too fast all the way to the freeway. As we swooped up the on-ramp, he said, “I was up there for a good part of yesterday, checking out the street, talking to neighbors. Home’s the big killing spot for females, so I told the crime-scene guys to take their time. Unfortunately, it looks like time ill spent. Got some prelims this morning: no blood or semen, no evidence of break-in or disruption. Lots of prints all over the place, which you’d expect in anyone’s house, but so far, the only matches are to Claire’s. Final autopsy’s scheduled for tomorrow if we’re lucky and no drive-bys stuff up the pipeline.”