Sue Grafton - K Is For Killer

Lorna was the prime focus, and her appearance was staged for maximum effect. She seemed oblivious of the camera, her movements fluid and unhurried, her expertise undisguised. Her looks were elegant, and in the early moments of her role it was difficult to imagine the misbehaviors that would soon emerge. At first, she was cool and seemed to be secretly amused. Later, she was shameless, controlled, and intense, totally focused on herself and whatever she was feeling.

Early in the viewing, I was inclined to fast-forward past any scene not involving her, but the effect became comical- The Perils of Pauline with sex parts flapping back and forth. I tried to watch with the same detachment I affect at homicide sites, but the mechanism failed and I found myself squirming. I do not take lightly the degradation of human beings, especially when it's done solely for the financial gain of others. I've heard it said that the pornography industry is larger than the record and the film industries combined, staggering sums of money changing hands in the name of sex. At least this video had little violence and no scenes involving children or animals of any kind.

While there wasn't much story to speak of, the director had made an attempt to create suspense. Lorna played a sexually demonic apparition and as such stalked both husband and wife, who ran stark naked through the house. She was also sexually abusive to a repairman named Harry, who showed up in the film during one of the parts I skipped the first time. Often Lorna's appearances were heralded by smoke and her diaphanous gown was blown skyward by a wind machine. Once the action began, there were many close shots, lovingly detailed by a cameraman with a passion for his zoom lens.

I flicked the tape off and rewound it, turning my attention to the packaging. The production company was called Cyrenaic Cinema with a San Francisco address. Cyrenaic? What did that mean? I pulled my dictionary from the shelf and checked the reference. "Cyrenaic-of the Greek school of philosophy founded by Aristippus of Cyrene, who considered individual sensual pleasure the greatest good." Well, someone was literate. I tried directory assistance in the 415 area code. There was no telephone number listed, but the address might be good. Even if Janice and I came to an agreement, I wasn't sure she'd want to fund a trip to San Francisco.

I sorted through the files she'd given me, separating out the news clippings from the police reports. I read the autopsy report with particular care, translating the technicalities into my sketchy layman's understanding. The basic facts were about as distasteful as the film I'd just seen, without the leavening influence of all the corny dialogue. By the time Lorna's body was discovered, the process of decomposition was virtually complete. Gross examination revealed precious little of significance, as all the soft tissue had collapsed into a greasy mass. Maggots had made hasty work of her. Internal examination confirmed the absence of all organs, with only small amounts of tissue left representing the GI tract, the liver, and the circulatory system. Brain tissue was also completely liquefied and/or absent. Osseous remains showed no evidence of blunt force trauma, no stab or gunshot wounds, no ligature, no crushed or broken bones. Two old fractures were noted, but neither apparently pertained to the manner of her death. What laboratory tests could be run showed no drugs or poisons in her system. Complete dental arches were excised and retained, along with all ten fingers. Positive identification was made through dental charts and a residual print from the right thumb. There were no photographs, but I suspected those would be attached to her department file. Postmortem glossies would hardly have been passed along to her mother.

There was no way to pinpoint date or time of death, but a rough estimate was made from several environmental factors. Countless people interviewed testified as to her night owl tendencies. It was also allegedly her habit to jog shortly after she got up. As nearly as the homicide investigators could establish, she'd slept late as usual on that Saturday, April 21. She'd then pulled on her sweats and had gone out for a jog. The Saturday morning paper was in, as was the mail that had been delivered late that morning. All the mail and newspapers after the twenty-first were piled up unopened. Idly I wondered why she hadn't left for her trip Thursday night as planned. Maybe she'd finished out the work week on Friday, intending to take off Saturday morning once she was showered and dressed.

The questions were obvious, but it was useless to speculate in the absence of concrete evidence. While the cause of death was undetermined, the police had proceeded on the assumption that she'd been struck down by a person or persons unknown. Lorna had lived alone and in singular isolation. If she'd cried out for help, there had been none within range of her. I'm single myself, and though Henry Pitts lives close by, I'm sometimes uneasy. There's a certain vulnerability attached to my work. I've been variously shot, pummeled, punched, and accosted, but I've usually found a way to outmaneuver my attackers. I didn't like the idea of Lorna's final moments.

The homicide detective who'd done all the grunt work was a guy named Cheney Phillips, whom I ran into from time to time. The last I'd heard, he'd moved from homicide to vice. I'm not really sure how law enforcement agencies in other cities work, but in the Santa Teresa Police Department, officers tend to be rotated every two to three years, exposing them to a variety of responsibilities. This not only ensures a well-balanced department, but allows the opportunity for advancement without an officer's having to wait for the death or retirement of division-entrenched colleagues.

Like many cops in town, Phillips could usually be found in a local watering hole called CC's, which was frequented by attorneys and a variety of law enforcement types. His supervisor on the case had been Lieutenant Con Dolan, whom I knew very well. I was somewhat skeptical that Lorna's role in a low-budget movie was related to her death. On the other hand, I could see why Janice Kepler wanted to believe as much. What else are you going to think when it turns out your late and favorite daughter was a pornographic film star?

I was restless, nearly itchy with an overdose of caffeine. I'd probably sucked down eight to ten cups of coffee during the day, the last two that evening while I was talking to Janice. Now I could feel stimulants, like sugarplums, dancing in my head. Sometimes anxiety and caffeine have the same effect.

I checked my watch again. It was after midnight by now and well past my bedtime. I pulled out the phone book and found the number for CC's. The call took less than fifteen seconds. The bartender told me Cheney Phillips was on the premises. I gave him my name and had him give Cheney the message that I was on my way. As I hung up the phone, I could hear him yelling to Cheney across the din. I grabbed my jacket and my keys and headed out the door.

I drove east along Cabana, the wide boulevard that parallels the beach. When the moon is full, the darkness has the quality of a film scene shot day for night. The landscape is so highly illuminated that the trees actually cast shadows. Tonight the moon was in its final quarter, rising low in the sky. From the road I couldn't see the ocean, but I could hear the reverberating rumble of the tide rolling in. There was just enough wind to set the palm trees in motion, shaggy heads nodding together in some secret communication. A car passed me, going in the opposite direction, but there were no pedestrians in sight. I'm not often out at such an hour, and it was curiously exhilarating.

By day, Santa Teresa seems like any small southern California town. Churches and businesses hug the ground against the threat of earthquakes. The rooflines are low, and the architectural influence is largely Spanish. There's something solid and reassuring about all the white adobe and the red tile roofs. Lawns are manicured, and the shrubs are crisply trimmed. By night the same features seem stark and dramatic, lull of black-and-white contrasts that lend intensity to the hardscape. The sky at night isn't really black at all. It's a soft charcoal gray, nearly chalky with light pollution, the trees like ink stains on a darkened carpet. Even the wind has a different feel to it, as light as a feather quilt against the skin.