Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

He swung his feet onto the desk. “Does the use of creepy-crawlies spark any ideas?”

I said, “Set the beetles, then wax and buff? It’s starting to sound ritualistic.”

“Beetles and bees wax,” he said. “Maybe I should be looking for a deranged entomologist.”

“Or one of those guys who like to mount heads over the mantel. Her I.D. was missing, same for jewelry, if she was wearing any.”

“Trophy-taking.”

“Maybe not in the sense of a sexual sadist evoking a memory,” I said. “If that was his aim, he’d have held on to at least some of the bones. Family or not, this one’s rooted in intimacy and specific to these victims. Can purchasers of the beetles be traced?”

“If only,” he said. “They’re legal and not protected like toxic chemicals so anyone can buy them. No way could I get a subpoena that broad.”

“You could narrow the search,” I said.

“How?”

“Order your two geniuses not to leak the information then sit back as the tips pour in.”

He started with laughter, ended with a coughing fit. When he recovered, he said, “How do you see the first bones fitting in, if at all?”

“Reading about them could have been the trigger that got our bad guy to dump his bones nearby.”

“And shoot and dump the woman the same night. What, he got a message from God? Time to take out the garbage?”

“Or hearing about the first bones jelled things for him,” I said. “Maybe he’d been holding on to them, trying to achieve mastery by transforming them. That didn’t work. Or it did. Either way, he had no further use for them.”

“I still can’t get past a father doing that to his own kid.”

“We could be dealing with a stepfather or a boyfriend. Maybe even someone who thought the baby was his until he learned differently and grew enraged. Infanticide’s not that rare among primates and that includes us. One of the most frequent motives is eliminating another male’s offspring. Our offender may have believed that getting rid of the baby would solve his problems, he’d be able to forgive her, move on. That didn’t happen so he got rid of her, too. Flaunted both victims as a final flourish: Now I’m the master of my own destiny. And by leaving the bodies in proximity he made sure they were connected: This is what she did, this is why she died.”

“So why not leave her right next to the bones?”

“Don’t know,” I said.

“Guess.”

“By placing his kills at opposite ends of the park he could’ve been symbolically laying claim to the entire area. Or I’m over-interpreting and it was a simple matter of expediency: He got distracted or alarmed by someone.”

“You guess pretty fast.”

“Used to get into trouble in school for that.”

“Thought you were Mr. Straight A.”

“That annoyed the teachers even more.”

This time he produced a complete laugh. “A stepdad, yeah, I like that. But holding on to the bones and fooling with them, you see Mommy going along with that?”

“Who says Mommy knew?”

“She has a baby one day, next day it’s gone?”

“What if he forced her to give it up for adoption? As a condition of staying together. Told her he’d handle it and took care of business in a horrible way. Even if she suspected, she could’ve been too passive or guilty or frightened to do anything about it. Back when I worked at the hospital I can’t tell you how many cases I saw where mothers stood by as stepfathers and boyfriends did terrible things to their children, including torture and murder. Any word on the DNA?”

“Maria Thomas emailed an hour ago, wanting me to know she got it prioritized. Like I’m supposed to feel grateful for her allowing me to do my job. Looks like under a week for basic analyses but fancy stuff will take longer.”

He took out a cold cigar, propped it between his index fingers. “You ever feel you’ve had enough of the garbage I send your way?”

“Nah, keeps life interesting.”

“Does it?”

“Why the question?”

“Just wondering.” He got up, opened the office door, stood gazing out to the corridor, his back to me. “What about Robin? She’s okay with it?”

All these years, first time he’d asked.

“Robin’s fine.”

“And the pooch?”

“Perfectly content. So are the fish. What’s going on, Big Guy?”

Long silence.

Then: “What you did for me … I’m not gonna forget it.”

That sounded more like complaint than gratitude.

I said, “Let’s not forget the times you saved my bacon.”

“Ancient history.”

“Everything ends up as history.”

“Then we die.”

“That, too.”

We both laughed. For lack of anything else.

The new murders had nudged the first set of bones off Milo’s screen. But I couldn’t let go of the baby in the blue box. Kept thinking about Salome Greiner’s tension when I’d asked about a Duesenberg-driving doctor.

DMV kept no records of old registrations but a car that rare and collectible couldn’t be hard to trace.

Back home, I went straight to my office. The Auburn Cord Duesenberg Club in Indiana had a museum, an online store, and an energetic members forum.

A woman answered the phone, sounding cheerful. I told her what I was looking for and she said, “You’re in California?”

“L.A.”

“The top Duesenberg expert is right near you, in Huntington Beach.”

“Who’s that?”

“Andrew Zeiman, he’s a master restorer, works on all the serious cars, here’s his shop number.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Was a Duesie involved in a crime?”

“No,” I said, “but it might lead to information about a crime.”

“Too bad, I was hoping for something juicy. Lots of colorful characters owned our babies-Al Capone, Father Divine, Hearst-but nowadays it’s mostly nice people with money and good taste and that can get a little routine. Good luck.”

A clipped voice said, “Andy Zeiman.”

I began explaining.

He said, “Marcy from ACD just called. You want to locate an SJ for some sort of criminal investigation.”

Statement, not a question. Unperturbed.

I said, “If that’s possible.”

“Anything’s possible. Date and model.”

“We’ve been told it was a ’38 SJ, blue over blue.”

“SJ because it had pipes, right? Problem is you can put pipes on anything. Real SJs are rare.”

“Aren’t all Duesenbergs?”

“Everything’s relative. Total Duesenberg production is four hundred eighty-one, SJs are less than ten percent of that. Most were sold on the East Coast until ’32, then the trend shifted out here because that’s where the money and the flamboyance were.”

“Hollywood types.”

“Gable, Cooper, Garbo, Mae West, Tyrone Power. Et cetera.”

“How about we start with the real SJs. Is there a listing of original owners?”

“Sure.”

“Where can I find it?”

“With me,” said Zeiman. “What year does your witness think he saw this supposed SJ?”

“Nineteen fifty, give or take.”

“Twelve-year-old car, there’d be a good chance of repaint, so color might not matter. Also, it wasn’t uncommon to put new bodies on old chassis. Like a custom-made suit, altered to taste.”

“If it helps to narrow things down, the owner may have been a doctor.”

“Give me your number, something comes up I’ll let you know.”

Seven minutes later, he called back. “You might have gotten lucky. I’ve got a blue/blue Murphy-bodied Dual Cowl Phaeton ordered by a Walter Asherwood in ’37, delivered November ’38. Murphy body with later enhancement by Bohman and Schwartz. Both were L.A.-based coachbuilders.”