Jan Burke - Dear Irene

Finally it was off. I covered my arm with it, awkwardly bracing myself as best I could, and smashed out the remaining pieces of glass. For a moment, I thought I heard a voice, but it was lost in the roar of the water. I shouted back, hoping someone could hear me over the noise.

Now I faced a dilemma. If I loosened the seat belt, and didn’t have the strength to pull myself out, I’d fall into the channel. If I didn’t, the belt would continue to hold me to the seat, but I’d never be able to crawl out of the window.

I gripped the edge of the window sill with one arm, and loosened the belt. My legs braced me for a moment, and I put the other hand up. I tried to push myself up. I slipped. In one arm-wrenching motion, I was left hanging, my arms above me, my legs in the cold water, the rest of me getting splashed with it. My headache was suddenly galloping through my skull. There was something soft beneath my feet. With alarm, I realized it was Jimmy Grant.

The horror of standing on him brought a surge of energy to me. I used my legs to scramble up on to the console between the seats and out of the water. I rested a moment, then straightened my legs. Gradually, pulling with my arms and pushing with my feet, I managed to get myself through the window. Sick and dizzy, I crawled out on to the side of the van.

I lay there shivering, utterly exhausted. I heard my name.

“Irene!” I rolled on to my side and looked over at the bank. Frank was standing there.

I waved a tired arm at him.

“Are you okay?” he shouted.

“I’m okay!” I shouted back, even though it made my head hurt.

“Stay there, help is coming.”

Stay there. I wanted to laugh. I guess he thought I would try swimming ashore. I could barely move. Even if I had the strength, I knew not to try it.

Frank was pacing the bank like a tiger in a cage. I could tell he wanted to do something, was frustrated.

“Relax!” I shouted.

I could hear him laugh. A nice sound.

Soon I also heard sirens. Red lights pulsed as police and emergency vehicles pulled up. Spotlights were turned on and aimed at the van.

A helicopter arrived. They lowered a man down, who wrapped me in the welcome warmth of a big blanket. He helped me into a harness, and I was taken up into the hovering helicopter.

I was a little pissed off that my first helicopter ride was such a short one, but I was anxious to reach Frank and reassure him. Paramedics stepped in before I could do much along those lines. They talked about taking me to the hospital, but I managed to convince them that I wasn’t suffering anything worse than bruises and a headache.

The rescue workers had warmed me up again with more blankets and warm liquids. I was battered but lucid, no longer suffering the worst part of the coldwater soaking. Eventually I answered questions from some of Frank’s coworkers. They seemed to believe they’d know where to find me if they had more questions. I didn’t want to stick around to watch Jimmy being taken from the water.

I knew Frank was really shaken, because he didn’t talk much while all of this was going on; he just took my hand between his and held onto it for a long time. Finally, someone said I could go home. We were both ready for that.

We crawled into bed together and he rubbed my sore muscles while we told each other stories about our evenings. He had been walking away from Steven Kincaid’s room when a nun came running up to him and told him I was in danger. Good old Sister Theresa. She hadn’t missed a thing. Jimmy Grant just didn’t know what he was up against. The holy card hadn’t just been a stalling tactic, she told me later. St. Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes.

EVEN THOUGH WE were both worn out, Frank and I talked for a long time that night. We fell asleep spooning, and all things considered, I’ll take spooning with Frank over a helicopter ride any old day.

THE NEXT DAY, the Express ran a short story on the death of Death, or Thanatos. It provided details Mark Baker had worked hard to gather: Jimmy Grant/Justin Davis had rigged his own fuel mix in an attempt to draw suspicion away from himself. As Justin Davis, he had provided software for some of the computer security for Mercury Aircraft, and made sure he had access to it as long as he needed it. As the police were already learning by the time he abducted me, Davis had also done work for Las Piernas College, including providing a card key system for employee access. It wasn’t difficult for him to get into Edna Blaylock’s and Don Edgerton’s offices. He planted the voice synthesizer in Edgerton’s office.

While Edgerton was the buyer of a hunter’s slingshot, the police suspected that during the time Jimmy Grant was stalking his intended victims, he learned of the purchase. He obtained a similar one.

Edgerton, it turned out, was trying to write a baseball book on the rise and fall of the Pacific Coast League, a strong minor league that had boasted the likes of Joe DiMaggio in the days before the Dodgers or the Giants moved west. Edgerton, self-conscious about his writing, had become nervous when he saw me getting near his manuscript. He later hired Mark Baker to help him write the book.

THREE DAYS AFTER my helicopter ride, Steven Kincaid came home from the hospital, worried about a scar that only made his handsome looks more dashing. Bea Harriman was looking in on him for me.

I told Bea about a young woman named Helen, from a sporting goods store, who had agreed to help out with Steven during his recovery. Bea promised to make sure they at least laid eyes on each other.

Jack was taking care of the dogs, and Barbara, who seemed to be worried about a decline in Jack’s attentions, was stopping by to feed Cody. She had insisted.

AS FOR ME, I was driving the Volvo home from Las Vegas. The desert air was warm, the windows down, and from the tape deck, Duke Ellington provided a delicious rendition of “All the Things You Are.” Mr. and Mrs. Pete Baird were cuddled up in the backseat together, snoring in unison. On the seat next to me, my husband slept with a smile on his face.

I am especially grateful to Dan Coburn for his help with airplanes; Ed and Kelly Dohring for once again providing help with medical questions (even during walks on Sanibel Island); Detective Dennis Payne of the LAPD Robbery-Homicide Division, for putting up with all kinds of pestering; Andy Rose and Debbie Arrington of the Press-Telegram for reporting insights; Robert Samoian, Deputy District Attorney for the County of Los Angeles, for help with judicial system questions; Larry Ragle, author, instructor and former Director of Forensic Sciences for Orange County; John Olguin of the Los Angeles Dodgers organization, Jack Shinar, Bill Granick, Debbie Arrington (yes, again!), and everyone else who helped with the baseball questions; Sharon Weissman for unfailing support and willingness to help; and Ken McGuire of the Los Angeles County Flood Control District, who patiently answered some strange inquiries from a mystery writer during a break in the rainy season. Special thanks are due my uncle, Robert Flynn, retired political reporter for the Evansville Press, whose work has always fascinated me, and undoubtedly influenced Irene’s choice of a career.

No small part of the information about child care and women in the workforce during World War II was gathered from my participation as a research assistant on the “Rosie the Riveter Revisited” oral history project at California State University, Long Beach, a project funded by the Rockefeller Foundation and the National Endowment for the Humanities. I am indebted to Sherna Gluck, who designed and directed the project, for allowing me the remarkable privilege of interviewing women who worked in Southern California ’s aircraft factories during World War II. I am also indebted to the women themselves, whose recollections and thoughts about their lives changed my own life in ways I cannot measure.