Jan Burke - Dear Irene

Time has softened the heads of my tormentors. There are so few left for me. They drink from the River Lethe, but justice is due all the same.

Do you feel it, Cassandra? Yes, I know you do. Our time together draws near, and you are a little afraid. Your feeble attempts to protect yourself amuse me. Cerberus will be no obstacle. One cannot escape one’s destiny. I am yours.

Icarus will be the next to die.

Your beloved,

Thanatos

“Postmarked from the airport,” I said absently to John. I was trying to force myself to calm down by studying notes he had scrawled on the dryboard near his desk. I had been standing there for several minutes, but to this day, I can’t tell you what any of them said about plans for the next edition of the Express. John cleared his throat as he finished reading the letter, and I turned to face him.

“The airport, huh?” he said. “I guess that makes sense for Icarus. Better call your sweetums and tell him to advise the folks on your list not to get on any airplanes.”

I ignored the gibe and told him I’d call Frank.

“The River Lethe,” he said, frowning. “Something to do with the dead, right?”

“Yes. The river of forgetfulness. The shades drink from it before passing into the kingdom of the dead.”

“Hades?”

“Or Tartarus, depending on who’s telling the tale. Drinking from Lethe brought a kind of oblivion, made those who drank from it forget all that they were before they died.”

“So Thanatos is telling us that even if the victims have forgotten something – or forgotten him? – they are going to be punished all the same.”

I nodded. “Nemesis is the goddess who represented divine vengeance.”

“That leaves Cerberus,” he said. “The three-headed dog who guards the gates of Hades.”

“I think Thanatos is telling me that our dogs aren’t going to stop him from getting to me.”

He was silent. He seemed to be at a loss for words. It’s fairly remarkable to find John Walters in that state.

“I’ll call Frank,” I said, and left his office.

TALKING TO “MY sweetums” calmed me down. Frank appreciated the information, but didn’t have time to come by for the letter. He told me the department would send another detective to pick it up. He also said they would post someone at the airport and warn airport officials not to let anyone on our list get on a plane without talking to the LPPD first.

I WENT DOWN to the morgue, which Wrigley has been trying (in vain) to get us to call the “library,” and asked for the reel for November 10, 1944. Since Devoe claimed that J.D. Anderson was a publicity hound, I hoped there would be a story about the transfer. With luck, there might also be some mention of the earlier child care center story.

It took some searching, but sure enough, there was a small story about Mercury Aircraft transferring twenty-five war widows from the Los Angeles plant. Arrangements included housing and child care. “Each of these women was married to a man who made the greatest of sacrifices for this country. These women deserve our utmost care and concern,” J.D. was quoted as saying. No photos, no children’s names. The article closed by saying that Mercury was trying to help these women because they had faced special difficulties following the closure of the Olympus Child Care Center the previous spring.

The previous spring. At least my search was narrowed down from “the war years.”

I went back and asked the guy at the counter for March, April, May, and June of 1944. But no matter how much I grumbled or scowled, the assistant (I couldn’t bring myself to call him the librarian, but of course mortician isn’t the proper term, either) wouldn’t let me take more than seven reels at a time.

I tried to keep my eyes from crossing as I scanned each page, afraid that the item was bound to be buried on a back page. After my fourth trip to the counter, some twenty issues into March, I suddenly came across something that made me shout “Eureka!” – startling the hell out of the assistant.

WOMAN CHARGED WITH MURDER

IN CHILD CARE CENTER TRAGEDY

Pauline Grant, the child care worker who allegedly struck and killed an eight-year-old boy last week, has been taken into custody and will be charged with second-degree murder, a spokesman for the Los Angeles District Attorney said yesterday.

Grant, who was supervising children playing at the Olympus Child Care Center, reportedly became infuriated when young Robert Robinson engaged in fisticuffs with her own child, who also attended the center. Grant is said to have given the Robinson child a blow which knocked him into a wall. The boy struck his head and lost consciousness. He was taken to Mercy Hospital, where he died shortly thereafter.

The District Attorney notes that although the only witnesses to the event were other children, their accounts are consistent and are believed to be reliable.

Olympus Child Care Center is owned and operated by Mercury Aircraft, and serves its workers. The center remains closed following the incident.

Now I knew why we hadn’t heard from Robert Robinson: he had been dead for about fifty years. I couldn’t figure out why Maggie Robinson’s name was included among the transfers, though. Maybe she had another child. Or maybe J.D. Anderson felt sorry for her. I decided to ask Hobson Devoe about it; he might recall something more about her if I showed him the article.

The article also said all of the witnesses had been children. I did some quick subtraction. At the time of Robert Robinson’s death, Alex Havens, Edna Blaylock, and Rosie Thayer would have been his same age – eight years old. Were they the witnesses?

I briefly considered the possibility that Pauline Grant was Thanatos. But if her child was at the Olympus Center in 1944, by now she would probably be at least seventy years old. No woman – let alone a woman of seventy – had carried me from the couch to the bedroom that night.

I wondered if her child was a boy. “Engaged infisticuffs.” Well, I did my share of fist-fighting in elementary school, but I had a professional attitude about being a tomboy.

I had to look through a hell of a lot of microfilm, but I eventually found other articles. I learned that Pauline Grant had pleaded not guilty, and repeatedly denied that she had intended to kill the Robinson boy. Only Alex Havens and Edna Blaylock had taken the stand, but apparently they made calm and unflustered witnesses.

As for Pauline Grant, she was sentenced to ten years in prison for manslaughter.

I made copies of all the articles that tied in. Much to the relief of Mr. Seven-Reels-at-a-Time, I left the morgue.

I had a terrific headache from looking at bright screens in a dark room by the time I walked back to my desk, but it didn’t last long. I had a feeling that ran right down to the marrow of my bones: I was getting closer to discovering Thanatos’ identity.

I called Hobson Devoe and asked him about Maggie Robinson.

“I don’t really remember her,” he said. “As I told you, I didn’t meet all of the women. I tend to remember only the ones who stayed with Mercury for a while. Maggie Robinson. Maggie Robinson.” He repeated the name a few times, as if chanting it would bring some image of her back to mind. “Her boy was the one who died, you say? A pity I can’t recall the details. But I’ll take another look at the records.”

I thanked him and hung up. The phone wasn’t in the cradle two minutes when Frank called.

“Good news,” he said. “I think we’ve finally frustrated Thanatos. Turns out Justin Davis has a small plane and was planning to go flying today. We stopped him and had someone look the plane over. Someone had tampered with it. I haven’t got all the details yet, but apparently it was rigged so that he would have crashed soon after becoming airborne.”