Vincennes looked around. “I don’t see anybody from Homicide here.”
“You and Fisk caught it, so Homicide doesn’t know. I can keep it I.A.-sealed for twenty-four hours or so. It’s ours until the press gets it.”
“No APB on Mertens?”
“I’ll call out half of l.A. He’s a drooling psychotic. We’ll get him.”
“Suppose I find him. You don’t want him talking old times, not with your father part of it.”
“Take him alive. I want to talk to him.”
Vincennes said, “For crazy, White’s got nothing on you.”
o o o
Ed sealed it.
He called Chief Parker, told him he had an I.A.-related double homicide and was keeping the victims’ identities secret. He woke up five I.A. men, filled them in on David Mertens, sent them out to search for him. He made the neighbor lady who called in the squeal take a sedative, go to bed, promise she wouldn’t spill the name “Billy Dieterling” to the press. The press arrived–he mollified them with John Doe IDs, sent them packing. He walked to the end of the block and examined the car–Kleckner watchdogging it–a Packard Caribbean with the front wheels up on the curb, the fender nosed into a tree. The driver’s seat, dash and shift lever–bloody; perfect bloody handprints on the outside of the windshield. Kleckner stripped the license plates; Ed told him to drive the car home, stash it, team up with the searchers. Courtesy calls from a pay phone: the watch commander at Rampart Station, the duty M.E. at the City Morgue. A lie: Parker wanted a twenty-four-hour blanket on the killings– no statements to the press, no autopsy reports circulated. 3:40 A.M., no Homicide brass at the scene–Parker carte-blanched him.
Sealed.
Ed walked back to the house. Quiet–no newsmen, no rubberneckers. Tape outlines–no bodies. Techs dusting, bagging evidence. Fisk in the kitchen doorway–looking nervous. “Sir, I’ve got Valburn. Inez Soto’s with him. I went down to Laguna on a hunch. You told me Miss Soto knew him.”
“What did Valburn tell you?”
“Nothing. He said he’d only talk to you. I broke it to him, and he cried himself out on the ride up. He said he’s ready to make a statement.”
Inez walked out. Grief all over her, her nails chewed bloody. “I blame you for this. I blame you for pushing Billy to it.”
“I don’t know what you mean, but I’m sorry.”
“You had me spy on Raymond. Now you did this.”
Ed stepped toward her. She slapped him, hit him. “Leave us all alone!”
Fisk grabbed her, eased her outside. Gentle–soft hands, a low voice. Ed walked down the hall looking in rooms.
Valburn in the den, taking pictures off the wall. Bright eyes glazed over, a too-bright voice. “If I keep doing things I’ll be fine.”
A group shot came down. “I need a full statement.”
“Oh, you’ll get one.”
“Mertens killed Hudgens, Billy and Marsalas, plus Wee Willie and those other children. I need the why. Timmy, look at me.”
Timmy plucked a framed photo. “We were together since 1949. We had our little indiscretions, but we always stayed together and loved each other. Don’t give me a speech about getting his killer, Ed. I just couldn’t bear it. I’ll tell you what you want to know, but try not to be déclassé.”
“Timmy–”
Valburn threw the frame at the wall. “David Mertens, goddamn you!”
Glass shattered. The picture landed face up: Raymond Dieterling holding an inkwell. “Start with the pornography. Jack Vincennes talked to you about it five years ago, and he thought you were holding back.”
“Is this another third degree?”
“Don’t make it one.”
Timmy squared a stack of frames. “Jerry Marsalas made David create that strange . . . filth. Jerry was a very bad man. He’d been David’s companion for years, and he regulated the drugs that kept him . . . relatively normal. Sometimes he’d escalate and de-escalate his dosages and get David to do commercial art piecework, just so he could keep the money. Raymond paid Jerry to look after David. He got David the job at _Badge of Honor_ so that Billy could look after him, too–Billy ran the camera crew since the show first went on.”