Chapter 12: DNA Doe

Walker said, “So what will happen this morning? During the preliminary hearing.”

“Hyder could ask for a continuance. But I doubt that he will.”

“Why not?”

“Because the case is going to be bound over for trial anyway. And Hyder will get a look, a sense, of the People’s trial strategy. He probably won’t even cross-examine the prosecution witnesses.”

“Why not?”

“You’re full of questions. And that’s not all you’re full of.”

“Winter.”

“Think cui bono.”

He frowned, recalling an earlier conversation, “Who benefits?”

“No, Sonny and Cher.”

“Winter!”

“Okay, the people Daniels will call up this morning are testimony-veterans. They’re unlikely to screw up. So Hyder will wait and watch. May learn something. And, if he plans on a hypothesis-of-innocence defense ... well, he certainly won’t show that hand today.”

“Hypothesis-of-innocence?”

“Let me tell you, boyo...”

I like traveling. Even with all the airport hassles. I like leaving and I like coming home. Usually as the plane lifts off from KC, I may feel a little tug of ... regret. Leaving Vanessa and Walker and Pilar.

But this morning, on the way to John Wayne Airport, I also felt a ... an Adam-nostalgia. I was missing the big guy. Not from a safety point — Arlington was confined to the Kansas City Metro area. He’d be unlikely to risk his freedom by doing something stupid before the trial even got underway.

I guess I had just gotten used to having Adam by my side.

I leafed through the printed file that the Sullivans had provided. Arlington had been born in Santa Ana. His mother, Heather, still lived in the family bungalow on West Bishop, off South Bristol.

I’d also be visiting two schools — Thornton Elementary and Adobe Middle School. It had been 25 years since Arlington graduated from high school; even longer since he attended the other two.

Time to follow that old police adage — ‘get off your butt and knock on doors’.

Gregory Williams brought his weekend clothes in a black backpack. By the time I got home Friday night, Vanessa was already plating our dinner. Cheeses and fruit plus red wine for the adults.

Being a professional detective, licensed, I noticed that Walker, Pilar, and Gregory had damp hair. Shower. Hmm ... two showers with Pilar in a solo role? Or one? Guess it didn’t matter — the three of them would be sleeping in one bed for a couple of nights.

But I had to admit some curiosity about Pilar’s involvement in this particular ménage à trois. If, in fact it was à trois. Pilar was, mostly because of the strength of her character, the director. But did she also have a starring role?

I watched her tasting different cheeses, asking Vanessa pointed questions about each one. She was so ... composed. Her childhood had eventually become vastly different from Walker’s. He’d led a comparatively sheltered life. Typically Midwestern, typically middle-class.

Pilar and her mother and father had been leading similar lives in Hondo, Colombia. She was a teacher; he was a dentist. Then the Troubles. He was gunned down and killed; Lina and Pilar made an arduous, life-changing trek through Mexico, into Texas, up to Kansas City.

Even today, Vanessa and I didn’t know everything they went through. Sex, voluntary and not. Bribes. Constant fear.

Now that Lina had married Matt Whitney, a successful attorney, she was back in a relatively comfortable cocoon. But she and Pilar had been ... altered. Not permanently damaged, not necessarily, but ... changed.

And that’s one reason why both mother and daughter were so fiercely protective of Poppy. Pilar’s toddler sister will never have to go through...

Vanessa touched the back of my hand, smiled, “Penny.”

“Oh, I was just wondering — you know, since I’ve been working in sports — if we could trade Walker for Gregory.”

Pilar grinned, “And a player to be named later. Gregory has a much higher batting average than Papi.”

Gregory grinned back, “Not necessarily.”

Pilar: “A lion walks into a bar and asks the bartender, ‘Do you have any jobs?’”

Walker: “No, sorry. Why don’t you try the circus?”

“Why would the circus need a bartender?”

My Duke Arlington trip back to Southern California had parallel goals. I wanted to see if I could find anything in his background that would have shaped him, molded him, transformed him, into becoming a killer. If, in fact, he was one.

At the same time, now that I had a pretty good idea of what Arlington had on the Seaver family, I would be looking for any possible real-time nexus between Caitlin and the former LA Dodger.

Sandy Seaver was an Oklahoma native; his only Southern California connection was when the Royals made a West Coast swing. Of course, one of those trips was when he first hooked up with Caitlin.

But both Arlington and Caitlin had been native Californians. Anaheim and Hemet. With Caitlin later bar-waitressing in Orange County. So far as I knew, currently knew, the two of them hadn’t met until after Sandy and Caitlin were married.

If I could find a prior connection ... well, that wouldn’t resolve the blackmail problem, but it would be a tangible piece of the puzzle.

My other quest — Arlington’s childhood backstory — was more abstract, more impalpable. But, as Daddy says, better to know than not.

In bed. In bed with Vanessa, the Friday night of the big sleepover. I was nestled back in her arms. Feeling so ... at home, comfortable. Where I belonged.

But I was still thinking about Pilar. “Babe?”

“Winter.”

“Do you think Pilar had a ... an alternative motive for bringing Walker and Gregory together?”

I could feel her smile on the back of my neck, “Of course. She’s creating a scenario for her own ... expansion.”

“With another girl?”

“Maybe. Probably. But we both know Walker won’t be enough for her. She’ll experiment. Taste. Explore.”

“Has she outgrown him?”

“Not quite. But it’s coming; it’s inevitable with someone like Pilar.”

I sighed, “Think they’ll last through high school?” I never had envisioned them going off to college together. But Walker is so dependent...

“Not like they are now. But I also don’t see Pilar moving out until he graduates. She does love him. In her own way.”

I thought about it. “So Gregory is ... what, a steppingstone for Pilar? She gave him to Walker because she’s going to start dating other boys?”

“I don’t think it’s that black and white. She loves Walker. And seems so fond of Gregory. So putting them together was an act of charity. No, of kindness.”

She licked the back of my neck. Goosebumps. “But also she was setting the stage for her own ... independent track.”

I had more questions, but Vanessa’s wandering hand had found me...

Pilar had a way of dropping bombshells with aplomb. Well, perhaps not bombshells, but newsy tidbits that would ordinarily call for a more private setting. Like a confessional. Or a padded waterboarding cell.

She was serving us Saturday breakfast — Irish oatmeal, steel-cut oats, with berries. Black, blue, raspberries. Chopped up almonds, pecans, walnuts. Still-steaming clotted cream. Walker and Gregory were on their second bowls. Two blonde lads, slender and cute and ... perpetually horny. And hungry.

Morning sun streaming in from Main Street. Malt shop over our sound system... “That’ll be the day...”

Pilar refreshed Vanessa’s espresso and poured another GJ over ice for me. She smiled sweetly, innocently, “Papi is taking care of Gregory now.”

Vanessa giggled, “You mean... ?”

Gregory, completely at ease, smiled at Vanessa, nodded.

The fruit of my womb was blushing. Deep pink, but not yet red.

Pilar shrugged, “I mean ... why not?” Since Walker sucked himself off.

Everyone was looking at me. I didn’t much care whether Walker used his hands or his mouth. It was ... sweet in a way. Of course not everyone would agree. Gregory’s parents perhaps. Law enforcement. The sentencing judge who remanded me to several years in a structured setting.

I looked at my son, “How do you feel about that, baby?”

Pilar was standing behind him, massaging his shoulders.

He tried for casual, “Fine. I mean it’s no biggie. It’s ... fair. I think so anyway.”

I kissed him on the cheek. Later I’d get the little fucker alone. Try to winkle it out of him. How did he really feel? How much did Pilar push him?

Pilar moved to the stove, brought the oatmeal over, spooned in a third helping for Gregory and Walker. Vanessa winked at me; the boys needed to keep their strength up.

Walker and Gregory did the breakfast clean-up without being told to. It was a typical Saturday — errands, grocery shopping, library. A weekly run to the florist. Gregory had joined Walker and Pilar in doing Pat Hodges’ Odd Couple walk. Right arm swinging sideways, left shoulder hunched over.

But, mostly, bedroom.

Sometimes Pilar accompanied the boys; sometimes she let just the two of them go back. I couldn’t discern any pattern. Other than a lot sex spread out over Saturday, Saturday night. Sunday morning.

Gregory had more sang and froid than a 14-year old boy should have. He didn’t have the slightest twinge of embarrassment when Pilar, or Walker, reached for his hand, led him back.

Credit due, that shower was running, off and on, all weekend. I’d installed the cleanliness drill into Walker ages ago. “Guy wants some pussy, he’d better be soap-and-water clean.”

Sly, “Are all girls like that?”

“Worthwhile ones are.”

The FBI had obtained a flexible enough search warrant that they were able to thoroughly scour Duke Arlington’s rental house in Independence and his Mercedes as well. In the process, he’d voluntarily provided the combination to his floor safe.

Of course by that time, he’d already removed the four knives. And the FBI had the one, unused, he’d just bought up in Evanston. It was locked in the Property Room.

I knew the search had been methodical and rigorous. The knives simply weren’t on his property. If he rented or owned another place, there was no record of it in the greater Kansas City Metro Area. Which included Johnson and Wyandotte Counties in that blood blister of a state, Kansas. Fucking Kansas.

I had convinced myself that Arlington wouldn’t, couldn’t, get rid of the knives. I could be wrong, but I didn’t think so. And I couldn’t share the photographs that Mingo Bernard Cochran had taken at my behest.

Worse, I couldn’t even tell Daddy. I couldn’t have stood the look of disappointment that would cross his face. So, like an epiphany, I instantly recalibrated my own moral compass. If I were contemplating an extralegal move and couldn’t tell my father, I wouldn’t do it.

Screwy logic? Of course. But it ... simply felt right to me, so I left it there. We’ll see.

Even though I couldn’t show anyone the knife photos that Mingo had taken, I was glad to have them. They removed any lingering doubt I had that Arlington was guilty. And the photos fueled my confidence in moving ahead with my investigation. In my mind, I was chasing a killer.

But, where were those fucking knives? Most especially, the Benchmade Adamas Folding Knife he’d purchased in Alabama. And, I’d convinced myself, he had used to stab Gustav Hindenburg to death outside that bar in Ft. Payne.

I went through my Arlington case notes. Revisited conversations with Pat Hodges and the Sullivan twins. Talks that Arlington and I had had in The Blue Cat.

A tiny voice occasionally whispered to me, “You know where those knives are, Winter.”

Ms. Avis graced me with another Malibu, my second in two trips. Was this an omen? This one was black; the first one, white. A clue?

In any case, it was a week before Duke Arlington would be arrested. The Royals had let him go, but there were other teams, probably other offers coming up.

I had called Arlington’s mother at 9 in the morning. I was — redheaded again — a reporter for the Kansas City Star. And Barbara Reynolds had a business card to prove it.

Yes, she could see me at 10; would be delighted. “We’re focusing on the team behind the team. The GM, Chip O’Grady, of course. But also the physical therapists, trainers, scouts ... the people who work away from the spotlight.”

Small, two-bedroom bungalow. Mortgage paid off eleven years ago. Back when Arlington was making major league money. Heather was 61, a little plump, a little vague, a little ditzy. And completely, totally, nice.

Yes to coffee, yes to homemade sugar cookies.

Tidy, everything was so tidy. Obviously she kept it that way; I’d called only an hour earlier. Heather was divorced; her husband had walked away back when her baby was only two years old. That, I could identify with.

She had glanced at my business card, didn’t ask to keep it. Didn’t ask to see my press credentials — one woman trusting another. Trusting a fucking liar, but there you go.

I sat through 15 minutes of photo albums, scrapbooks, dating back to high school. Newspaper and magazine articles as Arlington worked his way up to the Bigs.

“Heather, my feature is about the team behind the team. What about the boy behind the man? What was Duke like? You know, growing up without a father.”

And we were off. An angel. Popular. Gifted. Would have done a lot better in school if he’d just applied himself.

“Did he have trouble concentrating? I know school bored me silly.”

“Yes, to some extent. I mean he wasn’t dyslexic. Autistic, nothing like that. But it was sports, sports, sports, that’s where his heart was. And his head too.”

I tap-danced around childhood problems. Tonsils, appendectomy, chicken pox. Everything normal and American and ... boyish. Didn’t necessarily mean she was hiding something, but I had the sense ... she was hiding something.

I left it that I’d call with any more questions. And, yes, I would send her copies of the article. Twinge of guilt.

But I pushed that annoying little gremlin aside and headed for the Adobe Middle School. Grades 7, 8, 9.

I struck out at Adobe. Which wasn’t even Adobe Middle School any longer. It had changed its name to Adobe Intermediate School.

No teacher had been there when Duke Arlington attended. No administrators were still around. I collected three names — two teachers and one vice principal; each of whom was:

> one: retired,
> two: still alive and,
> three: I hoped, still compos mentis.

But I’d save them until I’d crossed off Thornton Elementary School. An even longer shot for a Duke Arlington connection.

Inside both schools I had that same irrational feeling of unease. Like I had felt back in the day — an insignificant student with no hope of ever escaping. Lucky I hadn’t felt that way at UMKC or I’d never have been studying for the bar.

Ms. Polly Primrose, principal of Thornton was in her 39th year at the school. “I’ll retire at 65. Started as a substitute teacher. Just to earn some money while I decided on a career.”

She looked the part. Gray hair in a tight bun. Brown blouse buttoned to the neck. Ankle-length skirt. But she had a mischievous smile and some sparkle to her.

We discussed teaching, but both of us were soon bored. Ms. Primrose had glanced at my reporter’s card; she either bought it or didn’t care. I had a sense I was the most interesting thing to occur in her life in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe longer. No wedding ring.

“I remember Douglas Arlington and not just because he went on to play for the Dodgers.”

“Oh?”

“Something happened to him. Right before graduation. Two weeks or so. His mother called and told principal Rivera that she had to rush up to San Francisco to care for her brother who had been in a car accident.”

Heather Arlington had never had a brother.

“Douglas had been an indifferent student, but his grades were decent enough. We mailed him his diploma.”

“But?”

“The Santa Ana Police Department came the next day. Asking about him. I wasn’t involved, I was teaching music at the time. She smiled, “Still waiting for a breathtaking career to tap me on the shoulder.”

“Did the police mention what had happened? Why they were here?”

She shook her head, “Just the usual school gossip. So long ago. But I had the impression that it had been young Douglas Arlington who had been in an accident.”

A masked thought that had been tap-tap-tapping at my subconscious burbled to the surface. I drove back to Adobe Intermediate School. Maybe I wouldn’t need to contact the three retirees who may or may not remember Duke Arlington.

I had seen an old black man with a push-broom on the way to the administrative offices. Like domestic help — maids and gardeners and ... I don’t know, gutter-cleaners — janitors were quietly invisible to a lot of people. But they notice things. Observe, listen. Postmen and delivery drivers. Utility workers.

School had let out, but a few students were still waiting for moms. Some teachers were doing lesson plans. Mr. Horace Abercrombie was shouldering a green trash bag on his way to a dark green dumpster out by a padlocked tool shed.

Yes, Mr. Abercrombie remembered Duke Arlington. Although he was Doug back in middle school.

“Why? You must have seen thousands of kids pass through.”

“Yes ma’am. But he was sports star around here. Best at football, basketball. Of course baseball. It was softball, not baseball. No, baseball. But that’s not exactly why I remembered him.”

Mr. Abercrombie was 63, two years from his own retirement. Slender, a little stooped, wearing a brown jumpsuit that said, for some reason, ‘Jim’ on the pocket.

“I saw that little boy his first year here. First week here. Before football really got underway. He was lost. A loner, no friends. Kept to himself, scuttled along, head down, shoulders hunched.”

“Shy.”

“Maybe that too. But I’ve seen a lot of shy kids, boys and girls. No ma’am, there was something else bothering that little boy.”

I made two more stops before flying back home. First to the Anaheim PD. Priority Homicide — Lieutenant Sanchez. I’d learned the value of making and keeping law enforcement contacts while at John Jay. Actually, college just reinforced many of the lessons I’d already learned from Daddy.

Hector Sanchez was still slim and trim and focused. Quietly intense.

“Anything new?”

I said, “Not really, the FBI is looking hard.”

“Pretty circumstantial from what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, slim pickings, so far.”

He made a move-it-along gesture. Didn’t have all day to chit-chat. Even with boobs like...

“I was hoping you could call someone in the Santa Ana police. I’m working for the FBI on the Arlington investigation, but I’d rather just ... visit. Informally.”

He smiled, “Yeah, a Fédérale potsy isn’t always the best door-opener with the locals.”

“I think something happened to Arlington when he was still in elementary school. Right before graduation.”

“This was when? Juvie records are sealed. As you know.”

“It would have been 1987. Late Spring.”

Lieutenant Sanchez frowned, thumbed through a well-worn brown leather address book with tabs. Held it open with his left hand, punched numbers on the landline phone. Hung up, muttered something, dialed again.

“Lucy, Hector. / Yeah, long time. / Look, there’s a detective out here. She’s working on something that might or might not be peripheral to one of my unsolveds. / No, but her father was homicide for thirty.”

He switched the conversation to Spanish. Because I’d been studying so diligently, I caught ‘cerveza’.

He hung up, wrote on the back of his business card. “Luciana Gutierrez. Twenty years on the cops; then she turned in her badge to become a social worker. Burned out. But she’ll take a meet.”

I drove from Anaheim to the one-story Grand Avenue office in Santa Ana. One of several Orange County Social Services addresses. I wasn’t sure what it said that multiple offices were needed. Probably nothing positive.

Luciana Gutierrez met me at the reception area. Shook hands, smiled. I knew in that instant that she and Hector Sanchez were a number. Or had been. Pretty, brown, plump, together. Harried looking, but not hurried.

She told a woman behind the Plexiglas, “Coffee, back in a few.”

The parking lot was sunny, very bright, but the temperature was in the mid-70s, comfortable. No Santa Ana winds in Santa Ana on that particular day.

We settled in opposite sides of a red vinyl booth and waited until the coffee was poured. She smiled, “Okay, whatchu need?”

Well, access to sealed juvenile records. But I remembered — would never forget — how Matt Striker would lay out a compelling scenario. Would weave in the narrative, establish a background, color in the picture.