Rage (9 page)

“Hi,
Tom.”

“Could
we meet, Alex?”

“About
what?”

“I’d
rather talk in person. I’ll come to your office.”

“Sure,
when?”

“I’ll
be finished in an hour. Where are you located?”

* * *

He
arrived at my house, wearing a camel jacket, brown slacks, a white shirt, and a
red tie. The tie was limp and pulled down from an open collar.

We’d
talked over the phone but had never met. I’d seen his picture in newspaper
accounts of the Malley case— mid-fifties, gray hair trimmed in an executive
cut, square face, steel-rimmed eyeglasses, a prosecutor’s wary eyes— and had
formed the image of a big, imposing man.

He
turned out to be short— five-six or -seven— heavier and softer and older than
pictured, the hair white, the jowls giving way to gravity. His jacket was
well-cut but tired. His shoes needed a polish and the bags under his eyes were
bluish.

“Pretty
place,” he said, sitting on the edge of the living room chair that I offered.
“Must be nice working out of your house.”

“It
has its advantages. Something to drink?”

He
considered the offer. “Why not? Beer, if you’ve got it.”

I
went to the kitchen and fetched a couple of Grolsches. When I returned his
posture hadn’t relaxed. His hands were clenched and he looked like someone
forced to seek therapy.

I
popped the caps on the beers and handed him a bottle. He took it but didn’t
drink.

“Troy
Turner’s dead,” he said.

“Oh,
no.”

“It
happened two weeks ago, C.Y.A. never thought to call me. I found out from
Social Services because they were looking for his mother. He was found hanging
from a punching bag stand in a supply room off the gym. He was supposed to be
putting equipment away— that was the job they gave him. He’d been judged too dangerous
to work in the kitchen or in the vegetable garden with tools.”

“Suicide?”

“That’s
what they thought till they saw blood pooled on the floor and swung him around
and found his throat cut.”

I’ve
always been too good at conjuring mental pictures. The brutality of the scene—
small, pale body dangling in a dark, heartless place— would visit my dreams.

“Do
they know who did it?” I said.

“They’re
figuring it for a gang thing,” said Laskin. “He’d been there, what, a month?
Tried right away to hook up with the Dirty White Boys— an Aryan-B farm club. He
was still in the initiation stage and part of the deal was jumping a Latino
boy. He pulled that off ten days ago, surprised one of the smaller Vatos Locos
in the shower, hit him upside the head with a heavy hairbrush and kicked the
kid when he was down. The boy suffered a concussion and bruised ribs and ended
up being transferred to another facility. Troy’s punishment was solitary
confinement for a week. He’d been back in his bunk-room for three days. The day
before he died, they put him back on gym closet duty.”

“So
everyone knew where he’d be at a specific time.”

Laskin
nodded. “The blood was still wet and the weapon was left at the scene— homemade
shank fashioned from a toothbrush and a piece of butter knife honed to a
razor-sharp edge. Whoever did it took time to wipe up his footprints.”

“Who
found the body?”

“A
counselor.” He finished his beer and put the bottle down.

“Want
another?”

“Yes,
but no.” He uncrossed his legs, held out a hand as if asking for something. “I
thought I was being compassionate by sending him to Chaderjian. Downright
Solomonic.”

“I
thought so, too.”

“You
agreed with the decision?”

“Given
the choices,” I said, “I thought it was the best decision.”

“You
never said anything.”

“You
never asked.”

“The
Malleys weren’t happy with the decision. Mister called to tell me.”

“What
did he prefer?”

“The
death penalty.” His smile was queasy. “Looks like he got it.”

I
said, “Would sending Troy to adult prison have made him safer?”

He
picked up the empty bottle and rolled it between his palms. “Probably not, but
it still stinks.”

“Has
his mother been located?”

“Finally.
The county just authorized her for methadone and they found her at an
outpatient clinic, waiting in line for her dose. The warden at Chaderjian said
she visited Troy once the whole month and that was for ten minutes.”

He
shook his head. “Little bastard never had a chance.”

“Neither
did Kristal Malley.”

He
stared at me. “That rolled off your tongue pretty easily. You that tough?”

“I’m
not tough at all. I worked the cancer wards at Western Peds for years and
stopped trying to figure things out.”

“You’re
a nihilist?”

“I’m
an optimist who keeps my goals narrow.”

“I’m
usually pretty good at coping with all the crap I see,” he said. “But something
about this one . . . maybe it’s time to retire.”

“You
did your best.”

“Thanks
for saying so. I don’t know why I’m bothering you.”

“It’s
no bother.”

Neither
of us talked for a while, then he steered the conversation to his two kids in
college, looked at his watch, thanked me again, and left.

A few
weeks later I read about a retirement party thrown for him at the Biltmore,
downtown. “Child Murder Trial Judge” was his new title and I guessed that would
stick.

Nice
party, from the sound of it. Judges and D.A.s and P.D.s and court workers
lauding him for twenty-five years’ good service. He planned to spend the next
few years sailing and playing golf.

Troy
Turner’s murder stayed with me and I wondered how Rand Duchay was faring. I
phoned the C.Y.A. camp in Chino, wrestled with the bureaucracy for a while
before reaching a bored-sounding head counselor named DiPodesta.

“So?”
he said, when I told him about the killing.

“It
might put Duchay at risk.”

“I’ll
make a note of that.”

I
asked to talk to Rand.

“Personal
phone calls are limited to blood relatives and people on the approved list.”

“How
do I get on the list?”

“Apply.”

“How
do I do that?”

“Fill
out forms.”

“Could
you please send them to me?”

He
took my name and address but the application never arrived. I considered
pursuing it, rationalized not doing so: I lacked the time— and the desire— for
long-term commitment, so what use could I be to Rand?

For
the next few weeks, I scanned the papers for bad news about him. When nothing
appeared I convinced myself he was where he should be.

Counseled
and tutored and taken care of for the next twelve years.

Now,
he was out in eight.

Wanted
to talk to me.

I
supposed I was ready to listen.

I
left the house and set out for Westwood.

The
restaurant was called Newark Pizza. A sign underneath the tricolor boot
promised
Authentic New Jersey Pasta and Sicilian Delicacies Too!

Lights
on behind pink-and-white-checked drapes, the faint outlines of patrons.

No
one waiting outside.

I
walked in, got a headful of garlic and overripe cheese. Bad murals covered the
sidewalls— walleyed grape pickers bringing in the Chianti crop under a bilious
sun. Five round tables rested on a red linoleum floor, covered in the same
checked gingham as the curtains. The rear wall was a takeout counter backed by
a brick pizza oven that gave off yeasty fumes.

Two
Hispanic men in stained white aprons worked the dinner crowd, which was three
parties. The cooks had Aztec faces and took their work seriously.

The
customers were a Japanese couple sharing a petite pepperoni pie, a young
bespectacled couple trying to control a pair of wild-eyed, tomato-sauced
preschoolers, and three black guys in their twenties wearing Fila sweats and
enjoying salad and lasagna.

One
of the countermen said, “Help you?”

“I’m waiting
for someone. Young guy, around twenty?”

He
shrugged and flipped a limp white disk of dough, sprinkled it with flour,
repeated the move.

I
said, “Has anyone like that been around?”

Sprinkle.
Flip. “No, amigo.”

I
left and waited out in front. The restaurant was on a quiet block, sandwiched
between a photocopy service and a one-story office building. Both dark for the
weekend. The sky was black and, two blocks up, traffic on Pico was anemic.
L.A.’s never really been a nightlife city, and this part of Westwood hibernated
when the mall wasn’t bustling.

The
mall.

Eight
years after he had brutalized Kristal Malley, Rand wanted to talk about the
crime, two blocks from a mall.

I’m
a good person.

If it
was absolution he was after, I wasn’t a priest.

Maybe
the distinction between therapy and confession was petty. Maybe he knew the
difference. Maybe he just wanted to talk. Like the judge who’d sent him away.

I
wondered how Tom Laskin was doing. Wondered about all of them.

I
stood there, careful to stay in the reflected glare of the boot sign, watching
for the man Randolph Duchay had become.

He’d
been a big kid, so he was probably a large man. Unless eight years of
institutional food and God knew what other indignities had stunted his growth.

I
thought of the way he’d struggled to make out the word “pizza.”

The
word was two feet of tricolor neon.

Five
minutes passed. Ten, fifteen.

I
took a stroll up the block, watching my back for no reason except that a
murderer might be looking for me.

What
did he
want
?

Returning
to Newark Pizza, I cracked the door, in case I’d missed him. I hadn’t. This
time the black guys checked me out and the cook I’d talked to got an unpleasant
look on his face.

I
went back outside, positioned myself ten feet up from the restaurant, waited five
minutes more.

Nothing.
I drove home.

* * *

My
message machine was blank. I wondered if I should call Milo and ask him to
check the specifics of Rand Duchay’s release. Solicit a detective’s guess as to
what Rand had wanted and why he hadn’t shown.

A quarter
century of homicide work had implanted a doomsday chip in Milo’s brain, and I
had a pretty good idea of how he’d respond.

Once
a scumbag, always a scumbag, Alex. Why mess with it?

I
made myself a tuna sandwich and drank some decaf, set the house alarm, and
settled on my office couch with two months’ worth of psych journals. Somewhere
out in the darkness a coyote ululated— a warbling, shrieking a cappella solo,
part scavenger’s protest, part predator’s triumph.

The
Glen’s teeming with the creatures. They dine on the haute garbage that fills
Westside trash cans, and some are as sleek and fearless as house pets.

I
used to have a little French bulldog and worried about letting him out in the
yard alone. Now he was living in Seattle and life was simpler.

I
cleared my throat. The sound echoed; the house was full of echoes.

The
howl-sonata repeated itself. Enlarged to a duet, then grew to a coyote chorus.

A
pack of them, exulting in the kill.

Food-chain
violence. That made sense and I found the noise comforting.

* * *

I
read until two a.m., fell asleep on the couch, managed to drag myself to bed at
three. By seven I was up, awake without being rested. The last thing I wanted
to do was run. I dressed for it anyway, was heading for the door when Allison
called from Greenwich.

“Good
morning, handsome.”

“Morning,
gorgeous.”

“I’m
glad I caught you.” She sounded a little down. Lonely? Or maybe that was me.

“How’s
life with Grandma?”

“You
know Gra— ” She laughed. “You don’t know her, do you? This morning, despite the
fact that it’s freezing, she insisted we take a walk around the grounds and
look for ‘unique leaves.’ Ninety-one and she’s forging through snow like a
trapper. She studied botany at Smith, claims she would’ve gotten a Ph.D. if she
hadn’t ‘been swept into matrimony’ at twenty.”

“Find
anything?” I said.

“After
clawing through a four-foot snowbank, I managed to produce one brown shriveled
thing she found ‘interesting.’ My fingers were numb and that was with gloves
on. Gram, of course, eschews hand-coverings except at lunches in the city.”