Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

Milo and Petra both had their flashlights in hand but didn’t need to turn them on; caged bulbs were set every five steps, bathing the tunnel in hard yellow light from hospital days, old wires forgotten, but still active. The floor was free of debris, swept clean like the clearing. Another circular hatch appeared, left wide open.

A room appeared to the right, fifteen or so square feet.

An old porcelain sign lettered in Gothic was bolted into the stone wall. Hospital Storage, Non-Perishables Only. Stack Neatly.

On the floor were two futons, rolled up precisely. Between them sat twin dressers still stickered with IKEA labels. The chest on the left bore a battery-op digital clock, two pairs of cheap reading glasses, a tube of lubricant, a box of tissues, three hardcover books: Introduction to Psychology, Abnormal Psychology, Consultations in Forensic Psychology. Three drawers contained a modest assortment of men’s clothing, size S. Laundry tickets were pinned to several items. A cedar freshener had been placed in each compartment.

The stand on the right was piled high with softcover books, four stacks, at least twenty per pile. Crosswords, anagrams, sudoku, sum doku, word search, brain-teasers, kakuro, anacrostics. Drawers below contained sweats, T-shirts, boxers, and tube socks, size XL.

An adjoining room, smaller, colder, contained two chemical portatoilets, one clean, the other reeking. Gallon water bottles were lined up against a wall. A card table was piled with folded white towels. Bulk rolls of toilet paper still in cellophane sat nearby. Off to the side, two cardboard cartons of cookies, bread, cereal, beef jerky, canned spaghetti and chili shared space with three bags of generic dry dog food.

“Keeping house,” said Petra. “Cozy.”

I noticed something behind the tallest stack of provisions, pointed it out.

Milo drew out a brown cardboard pizza delivery box. Pristine, unopened, printed with the image of a portly, gleeful mustachioed chef.

Lotta taste.

Ooh la la.

Three identical cartons were pinioned against the wall by cans and cases.

We returned to the tunnel, passed through a third hatch. The passageway ended at a final room. A Gothic sign said No Further Entry.

Petra tapped the rear stone wall to which the message had been bolted. “Kind of redundant.”

Milo said, “Some sign contractor probably greased palms.”

“My Lieutenant,” she said, though he wasn’t, “sage but so cynical.”

Milo stepped into the final room, approached the sole piece of furniture. Bare-topped desk, stickered like the end tables.

Muttering, “Doing what they could for the Swedish economy,” he slid the top drawer open.

Inside was paper. A detective’s treasure.

Check stubs documented a variety of welfare and disabilities payments from the State of California, Santa Barbara and Ventura Counties, mailed regularly to a Malibu post office box near Carbon Beach and cashed promptly at a nearby Bank of America. Totals varied from twelve hundred to nearly twice that amount.

The recipient: Lewisohn Clark.

Petra said, “Some moniker. Sounds like the millionaire on Gilligan.”

“Say it out loud,” I said.

She did. “Oh.”

Milo said, “Lewis and Clark.”

I said, “Master explorers.”

A separate collection of stubs revealed monthly payments of $3,800.14 sent to the same P.O.B. A recent letter from the state pension board announced that an automatic cost-of-living increase would add just under a hundred eighty bucks to next month’s installment.

The recipient: Sven Galley.

Milo checked his pad. “Harrie used his own damn Social Security number.”

Petra said, “Guess not everyone’s curious.”

She inspected a stub. “Svengali.” Her jawline sharpened. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

A dark green simulated alligator box beneath the receipts told a new story.

Faded Polaroids of women, young, trussed, terrified. The same terrible sequence for each: rope around neck, fear-frozen eyes, lifeless eyes, gaping mouth.

Underneath the photos were articles printed off the Internet. Missing girls, eight of them, the cases arranged chronologically.

The first victim, a college student at UC Santa Cruz, had vanished ten years ago during a Carmel vacation. The most recent, a sixteen-year-old runaway from New Hampshire, had been last seen five months ago, hitchhiking on Ocean Avenue not far from the Santa Monica Pier.

It didn’t take long to match the photos.

Milo opened the bottom drawer.

Another case, this one larger and covered in soiled gray shagreen, sat atop yet more paper. The press of a button-latch revealed an array of surgical tools resting in green velvet, each instrument snuggled in form-fitted compartments. Tiny gold lettering on the inside of the lid spelled out Chiron, Tutlingen.

The paper beneath the case was blank. Milo removed a sheet anyway. On the underside, centered perfectly, was the inevitable message.?

Milo said, “Not anymore, asshole. Let’s get out of here.”

Petra said, “Good idea, I need a breather, too.”

“It’s not that, kid.” He brandished his cell phone. “Not getting reception.”

As we made our way out, I let Petra pass in front of me, advanced closer to Milo, and stared until he made eye contact.

He nodded. Moved on.

By the time the black Lab and the springer spaniel arrived, darkness had settled over the field and field lamps faciliated by Detective Arthur Ramos had been propped.

The handler, a civilian from Oxnard named Judy Kantor who also bred and showed both breeds, said, “They love the dark, less distraction. What’s the area?”

Milo said, “That clearance.”

“That’s it?” said Kantor. “No trees or brush or water? Piece of cake, there’s something down there, they’ll find it.” She clapped her hands. “C’mon Hansel, c’mon Gretel, do your sniffy thing.”

Judy Kantor led the dogs around the perimeter, then she let them explore. Within moments, each animal was sitting. Ten feet apart. Judy Kantor marked the spots, signaled for them to resume.

Two more tells. This time, the dogs stayed seated.

She said, “That’s it, Lieutenant.”

Milo said, “We suspect as many as eight victims.”

“If there was another grave nearby, they’d tell you,” she said. “Unless it’s super-deep-hey, maybe you’ve got stacked bodies.”

Milo thanked her, she gave the dogs treats, the three of them departed with obvious joy.

No stacking.

A quartet of intact skeletons, interred barely three feet below the surface.

Petra said, “They’re all pretty petite. Don’t need to be an anthropologist to know they’re girls.”

It did take an anthropologist to make sense of the bones. Moe Reed’s girlfriend, Dr. Liz Wilkinson, had the report on Milo’s desk nine days later. The skeletons were consistent with the four most recent victims depicted in James Harrie’s photo stash. Dental records for two victims solidified the I.D.’s and the remaining two girls were differentiated using femur length.

Wilkinson opined that two of the victims had probably given birth, a fact that didn’t emerge during interviews with their parents.

No reason to bring that up. Milo helped facilitate delivery of the bones and has attended every funeral.

A wider, deeper excavation of the field has produced no other bodies, no evidence of any kind.

The burial sites of Dr. Louis Wainright and Nurse Joanne Morton remain unknown.

The eyes left behind in “Bern Shacker’s” Beverly Hills office were too degraded by formaldehyde for DNA analysis. Dr. Clarice Jernigan has opined that they may not belong to any victim, could very well be anatomy specimens sold commercially to optometrists and ophthalmologists.