“Ted was a gutsy guy, Vietnam vet, saw combat.”
“Any idea where I can locate him?”
“Forest Lawn,” he said. “He died a couple years later. Cancer.” He patted his sternum. “Fifty years old. He smoked, but nothing will convince me the shock didn’t break down his health.”
He sat up straighter, as if affirming his own robustness.
I said, “So Ted went upstairs, saw the rest of it, and called you.”
“I was still in bed, the sun had just come up. The phone rings and someone’s breathing hard, gasping, sounding crazy, I can’t make head nor tail out of it,
Marvelle’s saying, ‘What’s going on?’ Finally, I recognize Ted’s voice, but he’s still not making any sense, I hear ‘Mr. Scott! Miss Terri!’ ” He shook his head. “I just knew something bad had happened. When I got there, Ted was on the front porch with a big pool of vomit in front of him. He was a dark-skinned fellow, but that morning he was white as a sheet. He had blood on his jeans and shoes, at first I thought he ‘d done something crazy. Then he started throwing up some more, managed to stand up, just about collapsed. I had to catch him. All the while he’s crying and pointing back at the house.”
Putting his knees together, Haas hunched and sank lower on the couch. “I took my gun out and went in. I didn’t want to mess anything up, so I was careful where I stepped. The light was on in the kitchen. I saw Noreen Peake sitting on a chair- I mean you couldn’t really tell it was her, but I knew. Maybe it was the way she was dressed-” His hand waved stiffly. “Ted’s boot prints were in the blood-he wore
Westerns-but so were others. Sneakers. I still didn’t know if anyone was up there, so I moved really quietly. The lights were on wherever he’d-like he was showing off what he’d done. Scott and Terri were next to each other-hugging each other. I ran across the hall… found the little girl….”
He emitted a low-pitched noise, like poorly oiled gears grinding. “The FBI interviewed me, wrote it up for their research. Get your bosses at LAPD to find you a copy.”
I nodded. “What led you to Peake’s shack?”
“The damn blood, it was obvious. The trail had thinned but it ran down the back stairs and out the back door. Specks and spots but you could still see bits of sneaker prints. It kept going maybe twenty yards on the pathway; then it died
completely. At that point, I didn’t know I was looking for Peake, only that I should head back to the shack. The sneakers were right inside Peake’s door. Clerk over at the five-and-dime said Peake had tried to shoplift ’em a few weeks before and when she caught him, he mumbled and paid something and she let him keep the damn things.”
Haas glared. “That was the trouble. Everyone was too nice to him. He stumbled around town looking dumb and spooky; we didn’t have any real crime in Treadway, didn’t recognize him for what he was. It was a peaceful place, that’s why a part-timer like me could be the law. Mostly what I did was help people fix stuff, check on shut-ins, make sure someone didn’t get in his car when he was blind drunk. More of a damn social worker. But Peake… he was always strange. We were all too damn trusting.”
His hands were working furiously. Time to give him some breathing room. I said,
“When Treadway closed down, what happened to all the town records?”
“Boxed and shipped up to Bakersfield. But forget about finding anything there. We’re talking maps, plot plans, and not much of it, at that. Sounds to me like you’re digging a dry hole, Doctor. Why don’t you go back to L.A. and tell your bosses to forget all this psychological stuff. Peake’s locked up, that’s the main thing.”
He looked at his wrist. No watch. He got up and found it on one of the bookshelves, put it on, checked the dial.
I said, “I appreciate your spending the time. Just a few more things. The article I read said you found Peake sleeping.”