I parked in one of the visitors’ slots in front of the jail. The building looked new, similar in design and construction materials to the newer portions of the high school where I’d just been. I went into the lobby, signs directing me to the booking and inmate information section down a short corridor to the right. I identified myself to the uniformed deputy in the glass-enclosed office, where I could see the dispatcher, the booking officer, and the computer terminals. To the left, I caught a glimpse of the covered garage where prisoners could be brought in by sheriffs’ vehicles.
While arrangements were being made to bring Bailey out, I was directed to one of the small, glass-enclosed booths reserved for attorney-client conferences. A sign on the wall spelled out the rules for visitors, admonishing us that there could only be one registered visitor per inmate at any one time. We were to keep control of children, and any rude or boisterous conduct toward the staff was not going to be tolerated. The restrictions suggested past scenes of chaos and merriment I was already wishing I’d been privy to.
I could hear the muffled clanking of doors. Bailey Fowler appeared, his attention focused on the deputy who was unlocking the booth where he would sit while we spoke. We were separated by glass, and our conversation would be conducted by way of two telephone handsets, one on his side, one on mine. He glanced at me incuriously and then sat down. His demeanor was submissive and I found myself feeling embarrassed in his behalf. He wore a loosely structured orange cotton shirt over dark gray cotton pants. The newspaper photograph had shown him in a suit and tie. He seemed as bewildered by the clothing as he was by his sudden status as an inmate. He was remarkably good-looking: grave blue eyes, high cheekbones, full mouth, dark blond hair already in need of a cut. He was a tired forty, and I suspected circumstances had aged him overnight. He shifted in the straight-backed wooden chair, clasping his hands loosely between his knees, his expression empty of emotion.
I picked up the phone, waiting briefly while he picked up the receiver on his side. I said, “I’m Kinsey Millhone.”
“Do I know you?”
Our voices sounded odd, both too tinny and too near.
“I’m the private investigator your father hired. I just spent some time with your attorney. Have you talked to him yet?”
“Couple of times on the phone. He’s supposed to stop by this afternoon.” His voice was as lifeless as his gaze.
“Is it all right if I call you Bailey?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Look, I know this whole thing’s a bummer, but Clemson’s good. He’ll do everything possible to get you out of here.”
Bailey’s expression clouded over. “He better do something quick.”
“You have family in L.A.? Wife and kids?”
“Why?”
“I thought there might be someone you wanted me to get in touch with.”
“I don’t have family. Just get me the hell out of here.”
“Hey, come on. I know it’s tough.”
He looked up and off to one side, anger glinting in his eyes before the brief show of feeling subsided into bleakness again. “Sorry.”
“Talk to me. We may not have long.”
“About what?”
“Anything. When’d you get up here? How was the ride?”
“Fine.”
“How’s the town look? Has it changed much?”
“I can’t make small talk. Don’t ask me to do that.”
“You can’t shut down on me. We have too much work to do.”
He was silent for a moment and I could see him struggle with the effort to be communicative. “For years, I wouldn’t even drive through this part of the state for fear I’d get stopped.” Transmission faltered and came to a halt. The look he gave me was haunted, as if he longed to speak, but had lost the capacity. It felt as if we were separated by more than a sheet of glass.
I said, “You’re not dead, you know.”
“Says you.”
“You must have known it would happen one day.”
He tilted his head, doing a neck roll to work the tension out. “They picked me up the first time, I thought it was all over. Just my luck there’s a Peter Lambert out there wanted on a murder one. When they let me go, I thought maybe I had a chance.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t take off.” “I wish now I had, but I’d been free so long. I couldn’t believe they’d get me. I couldn’t believe anybody cared. Besides, I had a job and I couldn’t just chuck it all and hit the road.”
“You’re some kind of clothing rep, aren’t you? The L.A. papers mentioned that.”
“I worked for Needham. One of their top salesmen last year, which is how I got promoted. Western regional manager. I guess I should have turned it down, but I worked hard and I got tired of saying no. It meant a move to Los Angeles, but I didn’t see how I could get tripped up after all this time.”
“How long have you been with the company?” “Twelve years.”
“What’s their attitude? Can you count on them for any help?”
“They’ve been great. Real supportive. My boss said he’d come up here and testify … be a character witness and stuff like that, but what’s the point? I feel like such a jerk. I’ve been straight all these years. Your proverbial model citizen. I never even got a parking ticket. Paid taxes, went to church.”
“But that’s good. That’ll work in your favor. It’s bound to make a difference.”
“But it doesn’t change the facts. You don’t walk away from jail and get a slap on the wrist.” “Why don’t you let Clemson worry about that?” “I guess I’ll have to,” he said. “What are you supposed to do?”
“Find out who really killed her so we can get you off the hook.” “Fat chance.”
“It’s worth a shot. You got any ideas about who it might have been?”
“No.”
“Tell me about Jean.”
“She was a nice kid. Wild, but not bad. Mixed up.”
“But pregnant.”
“Yeah, well, the baby wasn’t mine.”
“You’re sure of that.” I framed it as a statement, but the question mark was there.
Bailey hung his head for a moment, color rising in his face. “I did a lot of booze back then. Drugs. My performance was off, especially after I got out of Chino. Not that it mattered. She was with some other guy by then.”
“You were impotent?”
“Let’s say, ‘temporarily out of order.’ “
“You do any drugs now?”
“No, and I haven’t had a drink in fifteen years. Alcohol makes your tongue loose. I couldn’t take the chance.”
“Who was she involved with? Any indication at all?”
He shook his head again. “The guy was married.”
“How do you know?”
“She told me that much.”
“And you believed her?”
“I can’t think why she would have lied. He was somebody respectable and she was underage.”
“So this was somebody with a lot to lose if the truth came out.”
“That’d be my guess. I mean, she sure didn’t want to have to tell him she was knocked up. She was scared.”
“She could have had an abortion.”
“I guess … if it came to that. She only found out about the baby that day.”
“Who was her doctor?”
“She didn’t have one yet for that. Dr. Dunne was the family physician, but she had the pregnancy test at some clinic down in Lompoc so nobody’d know who she was.”
“Seems pretty paranoid. Was she that well known?”
“She was in Floral Beach.”
“What about Tap? Could the kid have been his?”
“Nope. She thought he was a jerk and he didn’t like her much either. Besides, he wasn’t married and it was nothing to him even if the kid had been his.”
“What else? You must have given this a lot of thought.”
“I don’t know. She was illegitimate and she’d been trying to find out who her old man was. Her mom refused to tell her, but money came in the mail every month, so Jean figured he had to be around someplace.”
“She saw the checks?”
“I don’t think he paid by check, but she was getting a line on him somehow.”
“Was she born in San Luis County?”
There was a jangle of keys and we both looked
over to see the deputy at the door. “Time’s up. Sorry to interrupt. You want more, Mr. Clemson has to make arrangements.”
Bailey got up without argument, but I could see him zone out. Whatever energy our conversation had produced had already drained away. The numb look returned, giving him the air of someone not too bright.
“I’ll see you after the arraignment,” I said.
Bailey’s parting look flickered with desperation.
After he left, I sat and jotted down some notes. I hoped he didn’t have any suicidal tendencies.