Unpaid Dues (26 page)

A dozen black-and-white photographs hung on the
walls. They were blown to eight by ten and mounted in cheap dimestore
frames that did nothing to diminish their simple power.

Munch felt the summertime joy of the stick-thin kids
running through sprinklers. A seagull perched on a lamppost looked
regal. She stopped before an interesting shot of traffic moving in a
blur down Lincoln Boulevard and recognized the old Fox Theater
marquee.

"That's an indoor swap meet now," she said.
"I have one he took on Market Street, in front of that mural."

"
The one wif all'n his cousins?"

"
I didn't know they were his cousins. I never
even knew he had all this other family."

"
Yes, ma'am, he's got cousins and uncles and
aunties. He never did get to knowing them like he might've."

"Because he and Deb moved to Oregon?"

"Broke my heart to send him off."

"Deb always dreamed of living in the country."

"
It was safer there," Doleen said.

Munch figured the difference between safety in L.A.
and Oregon was about a draw. Doleen obviously didn't know about the
crowd Deb ran with.

They returned to the living room. The photo album was
still lying on the coffee table. Munch flipped the page to another
picture of Walter. This time it was he who was decked out in his
Sunday best—a dark suit jacket with the folded triangle of a white
handkerchief showing at the top of the breast pocket, starched white
shirt, black tie. His head rested against the satin pillow of his
open coffin. He looked asleep and not much older than he had in
previous pictures. Munch had to wonder who brought a camera to a
funeral.

"
Such a sweet, sweet child," Doleen said.
Her smile was filled with ancient and perpetual pain, but her eyes
were dry as if all her tears had been shed.

"Losing a child must be one of those things you
never get over."

"No, you never ever do. That's for shore."

"
Do you believe it's up to God? Do you think He
chooses who dies young?"

"
Some say it's always the good ones."

"I don't buy that."

"Neither me. " Doleen looked long and hard
at Munch as if to gauge her qualifications to receive the benefit of
an old woman's wisdom. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her. "I
think the good Lord gives us all our chances, and some just uses all
theirs up'n early."

"
If that's true, I'm sure on my last."

"
Bless your heart."

"
The reason I'm here"—one of the
reas0ns—"is about Nathan's Social Security survivor benefits.
Deb told me you helped with the paperwork. I called Social Security
and found out they'll not only pay retroactively from the date of his
father's death, but they'll keep giving Nathan a check as long as
he's in high school."

"What do I have to do?"

"You need to sign a statement saying that you
believe Walter is Nathan's father. Better yet, if you have anything
in Walter's handwriting acknowledging paternity . . ."

"I don' know if I have anything like that. I'd
have to look up in my closets. "

"Thanks to you, Deb already put together most of
the other stuff she needed—Walter's Social Security number, his,
mn, death certificate, and his tax returns. She's out of the country
now, so she can't follow through, but you could." Munch reached
in her pocket. "I have the number of the Social Security office
in West L.A. I'll—call and make an appointment."

Doleen sat down. "I don't know. I don't get
around so good no more."

"I can give you a ride. This is money your son
paid into a fund coming back to him through his son. It's owed to
him. Actually it would probably come to you since Nathan is a minor.
I wouldn't want him getting a big lump of money right now anyway."

"
Why's that?" There was a challenge in her
voice. "I'd just hate to see him blow it all. You know how kids
are."

"You think he's messin' with drugs?"

"A little bit of weed. He says he's staying away
from the stronger stuff, but you never know."

"Oh, Lord, not again."

"Again?"

The old woman wasn't listening. She was staring at
her ceiling, a weathered hand on her ample hip. "Yeah, them
things might even be up in the attic. It'll take me some time to go
through them."

"Can I help?"

"Don't you have to go back to work, child?"

"Not today." She didn't mention that she
was lying low.

Doleen directed Munch to the garage to fetch a
ladder. The garage was a small wooden structure standing alone on the
far side of the yard. Doleen had a garden of greens and sunflowers.
An assortment of white cleaning rags that smelled strongly of bleach
hung from the clothesline. The garage resembled a small barn with its
peaked roof. Double wooden doors on ancient hinges opened to the
dirt-paved alley The garage was full of old coffee tables, lamps,
boxes of odd pots and pans, and souvenir ashtrays. There was a sheet
of plywood with the words GARAGE SALE TODAY painted in red block
letters.

Munch used a broom to clean the rungs of cobwebs and
dust and then brought the ladder into the house. The attic was
actually a small crawl space in the rafters. Access was gained
through a panel in the hallway. She had to go back out to her car to
fetch a flashlight from her trunk before she went up.

There were several boxes stashed beneath the eaves
and taped shut, which slowed her search for the artifacts of Walter
Franklin's brief life.

"How you doin' up there?"

"
Good, just give me a second." It was hot,
the air stale and smelling of insecticide and camphor. Doleen's voice
reached her as if through wads of cotton. She thought of those three
men who died all those years ago in Oakwood. Did they have family who
still mourned them? Was she cheating them out of a final justice? She
thought of Walter's smiling face in the family album. He seemed more
real to her now. Would she feel different about the Ghost Town murder
victims if they had been white men? Probably not, and it still
wouldn't change her actions now The dead were dead, and ten years
dead was ancient history Like Doleen said, some people used up all
their chances quick in this life. Some kept getting new ones. For
whatever reason, she had been blessed with chances. Maybe Thor was on
the right path too. Who was she to bring him down?

"Wait a minute," she said, "before you
break into a chorus of 'Amazing Grace.' We're talking about Thor."

"
You say somethin'?" Doleen called up.

"No. I was just thinking out 1oud." What
about Jane's path? That should count for something. And what about
the other victims? Did they have parents who mourned them? Children?
Brothers and sisters? Ruby told her once that if she had a difficult
decision she should toss a coin and then pay attention to which side
she hoped would come up. That worked great on either/or situations,
but was no help with matters of ethics.

She found the box marked Walter and dragged it over
to the crawl space opening. Doleen waited below and took it from
Munch as she climbed down the ladder.

Doleen limped over to her coffee table and set the
box down.

"
I need to go," Munch told her.

"
You comin' back?"

"
Yes." I hope so. "I have to go do
something.

Something I've put off for too long." Munch put
the ladder away and headed for the place, the person, she should have
gone to first. Mace St. John.

She drove to the police station, not knowing if he
was there or what she would say to him, but feeling the need to place
her life in his hands one more time.

She parked on the street
and went inside the bunker-like building that housed the small West
Los Angeles police force. The cop working the desk greeted her with a
smile. That always took her aback, how she could go into places like
this and not immediately arouse their suspicion. She had to look in a
mirror to remember that what they saw now, in 1985, was not who she
had been.

* * *

The cop wrote down her name and called upstairs. A
few minutes later Mace St. John walked out into the anteroom. She
smiled at him, feeling her lips quiver at the corners.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"
I want to help you."

"Good."

"
What do you need me to do?"

"Come upstairs."

He sat her down next to his desk and started handing
her photographs. "Tell me if anything jumps out at you."
They were of Jane, the dump site, the stables, the autopsy the doll
she was clutching.

"How about the shelter?" she asked. "Did
you find out anything there?"

"They had nothing to tell me. They don't trust
the LAPD."

"I've heard that."

He started to thumb through his paperwork, stopped,
looked at her. "I ran into Rico the other day"

"
Yeah?"

"He's working a cold case from ten years ago."

Munch felt as if her blood had stopped circulating.
She was still holding a picture of Jane and now stared at it hard,
not trusting herself to speak.

"A homicide in Venice, in Oakwood. A triple
homicide. "

She licked her lips, not able to prevent herself from
making such a telltale gesture, hoping he hadn't noticed.

"Evidence recovered at the murder scene suggests
that Jane Ferrar might have been involved." He showed her the
picture taken at autopsy of the slashed V on Jane's midsection. "Have
you ever seen anything like this before?"

She looked him in the eye, relieved to the point of
tears that he had asked her a question she could answer truthfully
"No, never. What does it mean?"

"The three victims of the Oakwood homicides had
similar markings left on their torsos."

She wondered if he would make her look at pictures of
those too. She had a fairly good idea of what the apartment must have
looked like afterward, but she had no images of the faces. Sleaze
told her once about the guy who crawled with the slit throat. He was
trying to say something, Sleaze said. The dying man's lips moved, but
the only sound he made came out of the gaping wound in his throat.
She imagined that he must have left a thick trail of blood. She saw
how it had splashed to the tops of Sleaze's, Thor 's, and Jane's
shoes.

"
What are you thinking about?" St. John
asked.

"
What's fair?"

"
What do you mean?"

"Say a person does things when they're young."

"
Like murder?"

"
Yeah, just like murder. Jane was young. She was
on dope. Maybe she got caught up in a bad situation and then later
turned her life around. Should she still have to pay?"

"I know people do some dumb things when they're
teenagers. But three men were killed. Marks scratched into their
chests, throats cut to their spines. Anyone who went up to that
apartment that day and participated in that carnage crossed the line.
And statistics show that anyone who participates in mass murder,
multiple murder, will do it again. I couldn't let something like that
go."

"
Even if they were no longer a threat?"

"
Even if that were true, that's not the point"

"So even if a person got into rehab, found God,
and rejoined society . . ."

"
Are you asking me if that could be done?"

"
Yeah."

"It' s done. If the killer had no conscience. If
he could live with himself. If nobody rolled over on him."

"That's a lot of ifs."

"
There always are."

"
And they never go away."

"I don't think so," he said quietly

She looked at her watch. "I've got to go. I've
got to pick up Asia from school."

"Are you coming back?"

"
Give me a few hours."

"
I'll be home all night."
 

Chapter 22

It was dusk. Through the front window, St. John
watched Munch's car pull up to his curb. Overhead, the last birds
were flying home. A duck quacked in the canal. St. John waited while
Munch exited her vehicle, her feet dragging as if she barely had the
energy to lift them. She walked around to the passenger door and
helped Asia out of her seat belt.

He opened the door before she had a chance to knock.
She had already started to turn away. The dogs  piled out around
him and surrounded Munch and Asia. Asia sank to her knees and let the
animals lavish her face with wet licks.

"Come in," he said. "Where else would
you go?"

"You're having dinner."

"It can wait."

Caroline came in from the kitchen, a dish towel in
her hand. She started to ask, "Who is it?" but got no
further than "Who is . . ." and then just stood there,
framed by the light.