Incredible Episodes in the Life of a Female Private Investigator 0533111137, 9780533111138

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$17.95

Mystery, excitement, and risk are the

basic ingredients in author Paula Bolin’s workday. Readers can now join her in real-life cases, as narrated

by her in Incredible Episodes in the Life of a Female Private Investigator. Let’s begin with the opening case of Lonnie, the husband who was “Unfaithful to the End,” and its shocking outcome. In the case of “The Blind Pencil Salesman,” is his sighted wife correct in her suspicions that he might be unfaithful, not with one woman,

but with several? “Bloody Baby, Sterile Nurse” then explores the question of how someone can watch unmoved while

a baby bleeds

to death, and

“The Money Tree” tells how a hardworking electrician becomes the victim of a swindle. An investigator’s casebook filled with remarkable adventures and sage observations about human nature.

Vantage Press, Inc. 516 West 34th St., New York, N.Y. 10001

Incredible Episodes in the Life of a Female Private Investigator

Incredible Episodes in the Life of a Female Private Investigator

Paula Bolin Illustrated by Kent A. Bolin

VANTAGE PRESS New York

Names, places, dates, and occupations of the people discussed in this boo! have been changed, with the exception of my brother John Harrison anc

the private investigators, from whom permission was granted.

FIRST EDITION

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Copyright © 1994 by Paula Bolin Published by Vantage Press, Inc. 516 West 34th Street, New York, New York

10001

Manufactured in the United States of America

ISBN: 0-533-11113-7

Library of Congress Catalog Card No.: 94-90188 O93 Srv ib aes2d

To my favorite mental giants: Rush Limbaugh, TV personality, and James Paul Linn, attorney at law

Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2022 with funding from Kahle/Austin Foundation

https://archive.org/details/incredibleepisod000O0boli

Contents Acknowledgments Introduction Unfaithful to the End The Blind Pencil Salesman

Bloody Baby, Sterile Nurse The Money Tree Sex and Drugs and a Six-Year-Old The Fence-Hopping Survey A Couch Full of Blood Birds in the Bush, Bats in the Belfry Searching for a Samaritan in a Snowstorm —ee aes OS ia Ie ee Carvings of God and the Devil

119 139 167 185 201

Acknowledgments To God who gave me life To the following: My parents, C. Richard and Edna N. Bettis, whose strong teachings inspired confidence in me. My three sons, whom

I dearly love, Anthony

Michael, Kent Andrew,

and John Richard Bolin. My beloved grandchildren in the order of their births: Sean Michael and Jennifer Lavonne Bolin, Dallas James, Nicholas Wade, and Dillon Shaw Bingham.

Also to Douglas K. Case, the most wonderful human being I have been honored to know and the most important man in my life; my special nephew, Charles R. Winn, Jr.; my special niece, Johnna Coleen Harrison; my only brother, John C. Harrison; my lifetime friends, Paula A. Pounders, Nita E. Drennan, and Bobbye Story; Ben, Lee, and Frank

Clark, whose encouragement inspired me to write this book; the Del City Typewriter Shop, whose owners donated the paper on which my first manuscript was typed; Earl A. McClain, who taught me the meaning of ambition; and to all of the private investigators who have worked for me during my sixteen-year tenure, including, but not limited to: Tony Bolin, Kent Bolin, John Bolin, Johnna Harrison, Charles

Winn, Jr.,

Chris Fyffe, Sidney Armstrong, Denise McConnell, Nita E. Drennan, Paula Pounders, Donna K. Bingham, Maria Dowding, Lajoyce Mack, Karen Chastain, Julie Grice, Kathy Peter-

son,

Douglas

Case,

Bobbye

Story,

Stanley

Bolin, John

Harrison, Richard Bettis, Steve Hamilton, Donna Cain, Paula

Gillette, Audrey A. Houser, Paula Harrison, Carol Cush, Gary Good, Ted Bratcher, Gordon

Magnetta,

Bill Wood,

Rodney

Bulla, Garen D. Draper, Gary

Link, Perry Felkins, Peggy

Matchak, Milt Haleckson, Jerry Mercer, Priscilla Baker, Gina A. Mosley, Terry Duncan, Doug Watkins, Harold Story, Jr., Susan Gilley, Orlan Hanna, Cleighton Moore, Robert McCalip, Stacy Amos, Vicki Neher, Cathy Edwards, Richard Warren, Dennis Simon, Donna Rae Cain, Arleva Littlejohn, Gari Tay-

lor, Rodney Higgins, Paul Knauf and William (Bill) Weale. In Memory Of Lajoyce Marie Mack, my only sister, whose investigative

expertise aided in making this book possible; Robert O. (Bob) Cunningham, a great friend and teacher who taught me

all that I know about the art of investigative technique;

Glenn Magill, a good friend and former president of The Associated Licensed Investigators of Oklahoma;

Phil Hackney,

formerly an Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, police officer, whose fine talents were utilized by my agency when he was employed as a private investigator; and David L. Hood, formerly an attorney at law in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, who began his career as a private investigator with my agency.

And last, but certainly not the least in importance, my beloved nephew Michael Duane Bollinger, Jr., who was tragically killed in a freak accident at the age of twelve on June 30, 1993. Michael is truly missed by all of his family and friends, and mostly he is missed by my beloved brother, John C. Harrison, who was the child’s grandfather and closest and dearest friend in the entire world.

Introduction Gloria Tanner’s piercing screams still echo in my ears. The blood-splattered stairway, the pool of blood at the base of the stairs, and the five-year-old’s agony engraved a mental photograph in my mind. Hello! Paula Bolin is my name, and I am a private investigator. Instead of beginning, “When I was born,” I prefer to begin, “Shortly thereafter,” because that is when I became a private investigator. _ The story above is true. It directed my life into the field of private investigations. Perhaps the longest continuing murder case in the history of private investigators, it spanned thirty years. I investigated the case, without benefit of a license or financial reward. A priceless learning experience. I learned loyalty and the art of keeping a secret. Both essential ingredients necessary to succeed in the investigative world. I have never before revealed the true reason for my choice to become an investigator. I hope you will understand my previous reluctance as this tale unfolds. At the tender age of five, I witnessed the murder of my best friend, five-year-old Gloria Tanner. Pushed down a flight of stairs to her death, her screams became dry and raspy before a deathly calm filled the air. Her bleeding, broken, lifeless body lay twisted on the basement floor. Screaming, then sobbing, I turned my face away from the dreadful sight of her Xl

blood-soaked clothing. I was shaking uncontrollably, frightened by the scene. I ran from the terrible view as I heard my seven-year-old brother, John Harrison, call out to me. He ordered me to go sit down on the couch where he would join me shortly. When he did, he talked very softly to me about the murder. We were alone in the house. Aside from

intermittent

sniffling, I sat

perfectly still as he placed his arm around me and tried to comfort me. John confirmed my suspicions that my friend was dead; then he told me that he was the killer. He swore me to secrecy after explaining what would happen to him if he were ever apprehended. “As long as you live, never tell anyone what you saw or I will go to prison for the rest of my life,” he told me. I vowed to remain silent forever. At five years of age, I had a curiosity about me and I longed to know why my brother had committed that atrocious act. Remembering that I had not promised never to find out why he’d behaved so strangely, I set out to discover an answer. Since I had not watched the body being dragged away, but merely heard it, its whereabouts were unknown to me. I chose to wait a few weeks, then investigate the matter. During those long weeks of waiting, I began to have emotional problems. I was plagued with repetitious, frightening nightmares. My mind continued to visualize what I thought might have occurred. had never nightmare caused me

Occasionally, I told myself that the entire episode occurred and that I was merely experiencing a during the daytime. The traumatic happening to wonder if little girls ever go insane.

Three weeks later, I had gathered the courage I needed to approach Gloria’s parents. After walking to their home a block away, I knocked on their door. Expecting to see Gloria’s mother, I was disappointed to see a strange woman open Xi

the door. When I asked to see Gloria, the woman told me that the Tanners had moved away. My worst fears were realized. My nightmare was true; Gloria really was dead. That was the reason the Tanners had moved, I was sure.

Every day after that, I expected to see the police car arrive and the officers take my beloved brother to prison. I daydreamed about how it would be for him locked up behind bars with all those hideous-looking, desperate grown men, all

in jail for murder. I really didn’t need to worry. They never came. Years later my brother and I were all grown up. It appeared his freedom was spared by my silence about his crime. We had never spoken again about the matter to anyone, not even to each other.

Although we shared a horrible secret, we remained very

close in our feelings toward each other. My brother later married and named one of his three daughters Paula, for me. I named my youngest son John for him. No one knew that John’s secret was safely locked away in my mind nor did anyone ever know that I dreamed of someday becoming an investigator. I reasoned that if I became

one, then I could investigate Gloria’s death in complete privacy. Our secret could then continue. When I became thirty three years old, I saw an opportunity to fulfill my lifelong dream. While scanning the advertisement section of our local paper, one of the ads seemed to jump off the page. It read, “Single female over thirty for private investigative work.” Ignoring the “single” part, I applied for the position. After a two-hour-long interview, Robert O. (Bob) Cunningham hired me. I confessed my lie about being single later on that day. He said he would have hired me anyway, which made me feel very happy. After a three-month vigorous training period, I was able to open up my own agency in the same building with Bob. xiii

Having my own business offered me complete control over the case files, which I would need to discreetly begin work on the Tanner case. The next two years were spent establishing my business practice and learning everything possible about investigations. At the end of that time, I was ready to reopen old wounds and proceed to obtain evidence in the nightmarish murder case that still haunted me. I had learned that the best evidence an investigator could obtain would be by interrogating those closest to the event. My brother would have to be the first person I questioned. I knew that he held the key that would unlock the mystery surrounding Gloria Tanner’s death. Thirty years and as many nightmares later, my opportunity arose while having dinner with my brother’s family. They were at my home, where my children were also present. When everyone looked comfortable, I called to my brother from the living room. I asked that he join me for a moment where we could speak privately. He complied almost immediately. Reminding him of my solemn promise to safeguard his horrendous secret, I asked for an explanation of his actions on that dreadful day thirty years earlier. He first looked surprised, and he stared at me with a questioning look on his face. “Huh?” he began. I had his undivided attention, but he

still appeared to be puzzled. “What on earth are you talking about?” he asked. I stared directly into his eyes. “My friend, John—”

I paused, then continued.

“Gloria

Tanner, my five-year-old friend,whom you murdered when we were kids. I want to know all about it. I’ve waited too many years, and I don’t want to wait any longer. Tell me why you killed her and what you did with her body, and I want to hear about it NOW!” I demanded. I was becoming very angry at his reluctance to admit to what he had done. XIV

His response was a hearty laugh. The secret I’d kept for thirty years, the mental anguish I had endured, the millions of nightmares that never ceased, those that had caused me to

scream in the night almost every night for thirty years could merely elicit a hearty laugh from him. I didn’t understand his coldness, his laughter. Didn’t he have a heart? Where was his compassion? Had it been a void in his life? He kept laughing louder and louder. I feared one of the family members would come into the room to find out what we were discussing and then they too would know the secret. But John didn’t seem to care that they could hear. He continued laughing. Then he abruptly stopped, and his face took on a serious look. “That was a joke, Paula—” he began. He shook his head while looking at the floor; then he looked up at me again. He turned his head from side to side. “Don’t you get it?” he looked down at the floor again. “The blood was ketchup. We were playacting.” He looked me squarely in the eyes. “No one was murdered, Paula. It was all just an act to scare you.” He wasn’t smiling any longer; he looked very serious. He gazed at the floor and shook his head. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “You actually thought I would

kill someone?

A child? Be serious, Paula! I’ve never

killed anyone in my life, and I’ve served in both the army and the navy.” He kept pleading for me to understand what he was saying and to believe him. He kept on shaking his head. “I’ve been in the fire department most of my life, Paula. For God’s sake, don’t you realize that I save lives, not destroy them.” He begged me to believe him. He looked me straight in the eyes. “Do you actually think I could kill a child, Paula?” he asked. It wasn’t really a question. It was more like he was talking to himself. “That little gir—whatever her name was, I forget now—she left by going out the basement door. She was part

of the act. We were teasing you. You know how I’ve always smeared ketchup all over everything trying to frighten you and Lajoyce [our sister],” he said. I was stunned and relieved at the same time. I was embarrassed to think that now I was thirty-five years old, a professional woman, who in all my years had never learned the difference between murder and playacting. I felt rather stupid. The act was over. I knew the truth. The healing process could begin; the nightmares had no basis any longer. I knew I'd always been well-adjusted, and I would call upon my adjustment to set me straight once again. I continued to perform a service for my clients with a much better attitude. I did not take a man’s job; I created a position for myself in a male-dominated vocation. Utter ignorance of failure had catapulted me to success in the investigative field. I became licensed and I believed that somehow my license would exempt me from harmful prey. While feeling safe and confident, I soon learned that a license was not intended for

the purpose of protection. It offered none of that. During my sixteen-year tenure, I have been attacked by a vicious dog, beaten up three times, poisoned, threatened,

kidnapped, and sent a bomb in the mail. My property was once destroyed by a hatchet-wielding maniac searching for me. The anonymous telephone calls to both my home and office can be counted in the thousands. However, I have refused to allow those dramas to interrupt my superior quality of service for my clients. I consider them mere obstacles that delayed the progress I was making. Life as a private investigator is filled with romance and intrigue, romantic

settings. exotic foods, travel by air, land,

and sea. I have met new people, seen new places. My life has been the most exciting, fulfilling, and rewarding that I could ever have hoped to imagine. The stories written in this book were selected from the XV1

true cases in my files. They were written to enlighten the readers and dispel the myth surrounding life as a private investigator. Being a real private investigator is nothing like the television movies portray one. It is better; and it is not only real, it is a realistic life.

We are not gun-toting, race-car-driving maniacs, working side by side with the police. We are persons who believe in justice and fair play; we have compassion. Any one of us could be living next door to you. We work every day at a job. The difference in your job and mine is that I might work round the clock seven days per week while most of you probably work a forty-hour work week. I do not sit in an office or stay in one place for very long. Investigators travel frequently and conduct investigations in other cities, states, and even

other countries. Our cases include investigating things from dog bites to murders. You will observe in this book the variety of those cases and how we conduct an investigation. The stories presented in this book are merely the tip of the iceberg. There are so many intriguing stories that Ifound while working thousands of investigative cases that I feel I must write more and include them in another book, which I

have already begun to explore. To prevent undue embarrassment and disastrous repercussions to the people involved, I have changed names, places,

dates,

and

occupations

of those

discussed

in this

book, with the exception of the private investigators, from whom permission was granted.

XV

Incredible Episodes in the Life of a Female Private Investigator

CHAPTER

1

Unfaithful to the End CHEAT ON YOUR SPOUSE: GO TO JAIL!

There are currently no billboards along Oklahoma highways carrying this rather amazing threat, but legally, there could be. In Oklahoma, state law makes cheating on a spouse a felony, punishable by up to five years in prison or by a fine not exceeding five hundred dollars or both fine and imprisonment. This makes sleeping with a stranger even more dangerous than it already is. To the growing list of reasons not to cheat, such as the risk of contracting sexually transmitted diseases, add one more: hard time on the rock pile. Although it seems pretty amazing to us in these liberal times, making love to a person to whom you are not married carries a penal-

ty as harsh as those of DWI (driving while intoxicated, second conviction). Cheating on a spouse in Oklahoma carries a more severe penalty than threatening a person’s life. The consequences of such a threat is a misdemeanor. The penalty is a fine not to exceed one hundred dollars, provided you are sane. If you are insane, there is no penalty. When I learned about this Oklahoma law, my first rather mischievous thought was, “Wouldn’t it be fun to Xerox that ‘statute and send copies to every hotel and motel in the state, especially the sleazier ones!” What a stampede that might cause! However, after I sat back and enjoyed my little fantasy (bald-headed men with droopy mustaches opening their

mail, turning white, and knocking on doors along a hallway smelling of beer and sex: “Open up! Show me your marriage license or get the hell out of here!”), I came to my senses. This antiadultery law is rarely enforced. Why have a law at all if no one enforces it? Good question, but this situation actually isn’t all that unusual. There are numerous laws in many states that seem quaint and archaic to us and that are rarely enforced. Newspapers every now and then run columns listing amusing laws that are still official on the books, such as not wearing perfume around a horse (it might excite the horse, which will then bolt!), or dancing not being permitted in a bar where beer is consumed unless there are rooms for rent upstairs, or the one re-

garding target practice—penalty by fine and jail shall be imposed upon anyone found target-practicing by shooting at anything other than a bull’s-eye. This latter one would make a person consider hiring security police to protect his cattle. No one takes the laws seriously. Thus it was with the Oklahoma statute governing adultery. Or so I thought until I met Teresa Simmons. If she had had her way, the statute would be fully enforced to the letter of the law. Her cheating husband would be caught, locked

up, and sent to Siberia to take a census of the snowflakes. Teresa Simmons had called in our agency to gather evidence of her husband’s infidelity. The moment she came into our office, we could tell she was bringing us a divorce case just by the look of her. She had the pinched lips, the tense shoulders, the aggressive jutting chin. This is the typical body language of a Wronged Woman who wants revenge. After sixteen years as a private investigator, I have a little bet with myself as to what the case will be before the client says a word.

In this instance, when

Teresa

stormed

in, shook

my

hand like a sump pump handle, and yanked out a chair to sit in, I knew she had divorce in mind.

I sat back down at my desk, rearranging the papers that whirlwind Teresa had scattered. I smiled at my client-to-be and took a deep breath. “Mrs. Simmons, I’m glad to meet you—” I got no further. “Ms. Simmons,

please, Mssssss. And if it weren’t for all

the paperwork, I'd go back to my maiden name. Why I ever took His name is beyond me.” Mentally I congratulated myself. It was a divorce case. Whenever a client refers to her husband only as “Him” or “His,” with the stressed capital, it’s divorce, for sure. I tried

again. “Ms. Simmons, I’m glad to meet you. How about if I call you Teresa, to solve the problem? And I’m Paula Bolin. Now,

tell me how I can help you.” Teresa shifted her weight on the chair. She had chosen a chair that most clients avoid, a tall, straight-backed

one. I

have three chairs in front of my desk. One is a very comfortable-looking armchair, an overstuffed affair in rose-colored nubby cotton. Most clients settle into that immediately. The second chair is a leather one, black with brass knobs, like a

chair in an old-fashioned lawyer’s office. Someone gave it to me when I opened my own office, and I have kept it since. I found that men gravitate toward it, perhaps feeling it’s more “masculine” than the armchair. The third chair is a wooden kitchen table chair, with an unpadded seat and a doweled back that digs into the small of the back. I never sit there myself, and I don’t know why I keep the chair. But Teresa was so involved in telling her story that she never sat back. In fact, she sat on the edge of her chair, with her elbows on my desk, like a schoolgirl. I looked at her more closely. Teresa Sim-mons had probably once been a pretty young girl. Right now, she was a thirty-five-year-old on the warpath. She had short, curly blond hair that looked like a Zsa-Zsa Gabor wig. The nails she was drumming on my desk were long and painted

an orangish color I hadn’t seen since the sixties. The best thing about her was her face, which looked as if it were normally cute and perky. Right now, her eyes were scrunched up into a scowl, and her mouth was wide open as she began her complaint. “It’s Lonnie, my shithead husband. He’s living with another woman, and | want you to prove that,” said Teresa. I put on a sympathetic face, then immediately changed it. This woman was not here for sympathy, only for revenge. “T take it you want to find out for your own peace of mind, so that you know whether or not to get a divorce?” Teresa snorted. “No, we’ve separated and I’m going to file for divorce soon. I just want proof that I can use in court to get more money out of Lonnie. God knows I deserve it for putting up with that shithead.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper. “Here, this is the address where Lonnie works. It’s a dry cleaners; he’s the manager. I don’t have the address of where She lives or the phone number. Lonnie and I haven’t talked in weeks. Go follow him from work, find out where he is living with her, and get pictures or whatever other proof I’ll need.” It’s amazing how often clients tell me how to do myjob. I was used to it by then, so I just smiled and took the piece of paper. Boardman’s Dry Cleaners, 2822 North Midwest Boulevard. “That’s in the industrial section, right? Thanks. Now I need some more information. What’s the name of the woman you think your husband is living with?” For the first time, Teresa leaned back. “I don’t know. He

likes them young, so it’s probably something like Bunny or Biffy or Buffy.” I laughed, pleased that this virago had a sense of humor. Unfortunately, she wasn’t joking. I sighed and tried again. “You don’t know the woman’s name. What do you know about her? Where does she live? Where does she work?”

Teresa waved my questions away impatiently. “I don’t know and I don’t care. She can have the shithead. I just want proof that I can use to take all his money. I deserve it for putting up with him.” That was the third time Teresa used that highly descriptive term for her husband. I surreptitiously made a note of it. Audrey Houser, my secretary, and I have a running joke over the “endearments” that clients call their cheating spouses. We began making a list about eight years ago when a Spanish-speaking client rattled off a chain of expletives that neither of us knew. Audrey took them down, and we had a good time looking them up in our Spanish-English dictionary later. At present, we have a list of over three hundred terms, in English,

Spanish, French, German, and a few languages that we think were just made up. Someday we are going to publish the list and make our fortunes. But for now, I had business.

I tried not to sound impatient or patronizing. “How do you know your husband is living with a woman if you know nothing about her?” Me, I thought it was a perfectly logical question, but Teresa gave me a dirty look as if I were an idiot. “I knew he was sleeping with someone else while we were married and living together. It stands to reason that he’s living with her now. He’s so damn cheap that he wouldn’t spring for an apartment of his own when he could mooch off someone else. In fact, he probably is a gigolo, living off her. He’s the type—” she leaned forward again—“he’s the type who comes home, expects the dinner to be on the table, wolfs it down,

then belches the rest of the evening in front of the television. In fact one time—” I interrupted her. I had heard enough griping about husbands to last me a lifetime. It was time to get back to business. I gave her my best professional smile.

“Yes, well, I’m sure you’ve had your problems with him. But since you want me to get started on this case right away, I’ll have to hear about them another time” (when Hell freezes over, | thought). I began writing notes on my yellow pad. Actually, there wasn’t much to write, but I’ve found that scribbling while frowning in concentration makes the clients think they are getting their money’s worth. “Let me summarize. I have the info on your husband,

his name, where

he works, what he

drives. Do you have a picture I can use to recognize him?” I nodded my thanks as Teresa handed one over. I took a quick glance at it. It was pretty much what I had expected, a forty-year-old man, with slightly receding blond, poorly cut, shaggy, shoulder-length hair, and with a sappy-looking expression on his face like most of us get when posing for a photographer. I stared at the yellow pad again. “He is living with a woman. You want us to find her and get proof of their cohabitation. All right. We’ll take pictures, get statements if possible from people around them. Leave it to us, Teresa. We specialize in domestic

cases, and that is what this one

hap-

pens to be.” Teresa stood up. “Money is no object.” I looked at her. Clients always say that, dramatically, with a pose like the one Teresa was striking now. They watch too many T'V shows. It wouldn’t be so bad if they meant it, but no

one ever does. They all want to pay as little as possible, while putting on the Lady Bountiful act up front. They think that the carrot of money will make the donkey work harder; as my youngest son, John, says, they take us for asses. “Thanks, but you know our rates. Audrey has already discussed them with you, a retainer

fee of $1,500,

out of which

will come

the

hourly fee of $50 per investigator, plus all expenses incurred. You will need to sign this contract and give me a check, and

we'll begin. At the end of the retainer fee, I will call you to come in to discuss what we have learned. You will notice that at the bottom of the contract there is a stipulation that the fee shall not exceed the retainer fee, unless a new contract is

signed by both parties. Teresa acted like she did not care what I was saying. She dug in her purse, brought out her check book, wrote a check

for $1,500, and handed it to me. Then she signed the contract and I gave her a copy. She picked up the contract, along with her car keys that were lying on my desk, and twirled the keys around her finger. “How long do you think this will take?” They all want to know that. “I can’t give a guaranteed time

because

we

don’t

know

what we

will discover,

but I

doubt it will be too long if he is truly doing what you’ve told me. We’ll get started on the case this afternoon, and I will keep you informed. If Lonnie—” I had to catch myself; I had almost called him the shithead—“is still working at the dry cleaners, we’ll put a tail on him this evening and we’ll go put him to bed.” Saying the latter merely means we will watch while he goes to bed with his girlfriend. Of course we generally watch from outside to see when the lights go out, but we have also seen them when we were inside the residence with them. Fortunately for us, we do oftentimes get invited inside. We are known as “undercover” agents at that time, however, and they are unaware that we are private investigators. I watched Teresa’s eyes light up. Clients love it when you use detective jargon, like “put a tail on.” I walked around from behind the desk, toward the door.

Teresa followed me and paused as I opened the door for her. “Tl give you a call as soon as I learn something,” I told her again. “You’ll hear from me no later than a week from today, one way or the other. You gave Audrey your number, right? Good. That'll do it then. Good-bye, Teresa.” I shut the door

behind her and went back to my desk. I sat at my desk for a few minutes, looking at the picture of Lonnie Simmons. He seemed your average married man, protruding beer-belly type, probably no better or worse than any of the rest of them. It was easy to lose track of the fact that there were two sides to every divorce. However, since it

was the wife who was paying my fee, I shook my finger at Lonnie and then pushed the intercom button to my secretary. “Audrey, please have Kent come in here right away. Oh, and add Shithead to our spousal sobriquet’s list.” Audrey’s voice wafted back. “It must be awful to be so old that your memory cells are shot. Shithead has been on the list for quite a long time. Remember that woman whose husband stole her schnauzer?” I grinned. “You’re right; I bow to your superior memory. The Schnauzer and the Shithead, one of my best cases. How

could I forget? Okay, just get Kent in here.” A few minutes later, my middle son came into the room. Kent and I don’t advertise the fact that we are mother and son while we are working. In fact, during working hours, we don’t play the family roles; we’re boss and worker. And Kent

is one of the best workers I have. I call him my Charmer Detective. He’s a very handsome twenty-three-year-old, with a slight resemblance to a young Tom Selleck. He has thick, wavy dark brown hair and deep-set blue eyes that he knows how to use, staring at women as if they were the only thing worth looking at for miles around. I think he learned that trick from his very handsome father, who used it to charm me more times than I care to remember. Kent gets teased about his looks a lot, but he takes it in stride. He’s learned that his appearance is just another tool he can use to get the job done. He perched on the edge of my desk and looked at my yellow pad. **Lonnie Simmons, Boardman’s Dry Cleaners, Shithead.’

Ah, this must

be a divorce

case!” We

both

laughed.

Kent

continued, “Let me guess. The irate wife, who considers her-

self morally wronged, wants us to get the goods on her straying husband. She’s out for blood.” I yanked back the yellow pad from my son. “While I’m thinking about it, I want you to burn all my personal notes after my death. The last thing I need is papers full of things like ‘Shithead’ being published to remember me by. And you’re partially right about the case. It is divorce, with a wronged woman. But she’s not out for blood, only money. She wants us to find the woman her husband is living with, get proof of the affair, and give it to her to use in the divorce.” Kent looked around him. “I should have known money was involved. When it’s something emotional, you usually have wadded-up, soaking-wet Kleenex all around. All that’s here is the faint whiff of Burning Mad Woman. Okay, Boss, where do we start?” I pulled Kent off my desk and toward the door. “It’s romantic detective time. Ready to go for the excitement of the big-time detective?” Kent groaned. “Oh, no. That means sitting outside a building, drinking coffee, boring each other to death as we

wait for someone.” I tweaked my son’s cheek. “No.” I let him look relieved for a minute, then went on. “You’re right about the sitting and drinking, but not about the boring. WE won’t be there; only you. Here’s the address of the dry cleaners. Here’s a picture of the man and his vehicle description. Just wait for him to get off work, and follow him home. | don’t think it takes two of us for that, do you?” Kent rolled his eyes and left. It was only about three hours later that I got a call. “Piece of cake. Lonnie Simmons left work, driving a 1975 Chevy pickup and went directly to 4115 Del Rey Drive, apartment 6. It’s a ground-floor apart-

ment with a yard. The apartment is rented to Michele Perkins. I watched her come home too. She looks about twenty-five, and is gorgeous, five-foot-ten, blonde, built. No won-

der Lonnie comes straight home from work.” “Do you know that you can get electrified if you drool into a telephone?” I asked sweetly. “Okay, you get the job of watching her for the next couple of days, to make sure Lonnie is actually living there, not just coming and going. If he changes clothes there, it means he is living with her. That’s the proof of cohabitation in our state of Oklahoma. Did you find out where she works? We should probably interview her there, without Lonnie hanging around.” “You're right, and I already thought of that. I talked to the manager of the apartment complex, said I was doing a credit check. He was a nice guy. It seems Michele works at Vanities, the clothing plant on the north side. I figure I'll go over there to talk to her in a few days,” said Kent. “Wrong again (as Sidney Armstrong would say). This time WE’LL go over and talk to her. Come back to the office. I want to go over with you the questions we’ll ask and how we'll handle it. See you in a little while,” I replied.

A few days later at eleven-thirty in the morning, Kent and I walked into Vanities. Since the plant was so large, we found the main office and asked to have Michele paged. The busy office worker didn’t even ask for a reason or wonder who we were. Hejust grabbed the microphone and yelled for Michele Perkins. A few minutes later, I saw Kent’s head do a smart swivel and looked to see a very pretty blonde coming up the aisle. The man who paged her spoke to her and nodded to us. Michele came over. Kent gave Michele his best smile. She smiled back and said, “I’m Michele Perkins. I only have a few minutes before

lunch. What do you want?” While she was talking, I looked at her. For such a tall 10

woman, she seemed rather small and fragile. Pathetic was the

word that kept coming to my mind. I had expected a Junoesque beauty, someone striking and imperious. Instead, I found

a blonde with fine, skimpy hair, too much

makeup,

and the pale skin ofa factory worker. I kept thinking that she was Only close to beautiful. I looked over at my son. From the way he was looking at Michele, it was obvious he thought she was prettier than I did. Or maybe that was just Kent’s famous Look again; you could never tell. Kent began. “Hi, Michele. Thanks for talking to us. We won't take much of your time.” Michele seemed to relax. “Who are you?” I stepped forward and flashed my identification card. It looks just like something out of a Humphrey Bogart movie. It is in a brown leather wallet, with a gold badge on the opposite side in plain view. It reads “Special Agent.” The picture of me makes me look like a hard momma, some gangster’s

moll, but sometimes that can be to my advantage. Most people don’t look too clearly at it anyway. Kent is always teasing that he’s going to trade in his badge for a tin star from a cereal box and put it next to his ID card, just to impress the folks. “Nothing like a glimpse of shining star to get someone’s attention!” he says. “I’m Paula Bolin, and this is Kent. We’re private investigators.” Someday, after I have published my book on Fifty Million Names Divorced Spouses Call Each Other, I am going to put out another one: People’s Reactions to P.I. Identification Cards. Michele had a pretty common one. She gawked at it, looked at us, then turned a little pink. “Private investigators? For who? What do you want with me? Is this something the factory is doing for job security or something?” By this time, a few others had gathered around us. I noticed them and asked whether we could talk somewhere more private. As I’ve said, my first reaction was that Michele 11

was a rather pathetic individual. I didn’t see any reason to make more trouble for her than I had to. There was no need | to get her a bad reputation at work. Therefore, I put on a big 5 grin and tried to look as if I were a friend of hers or someone »

giving Michele good news. Kent took his cue from me and | put his hand on Michele’s elbow, leading her away to a cor- ner office that was empty. The crowd, deprived of its bread | and circuses, left.

Michele sat down on a wooden chair behind a rickety table. I sat down next to her, close enough for the tape » recorder I had in my purse to pick up her conversation. I plopped the purse between us. “We represent a woman named Teresa Simmons. Does that name ring a bell with you?” I asked. I watched as Michele turned white, then pink, then pasty

white again. That’s the great thing about blondes; their complexions give them away. “What does that woman have to do with me?” Michele asked angrily. “We know you are living with her husband—” Michele opened her mouth to say something, but I didn’t give her the chance. “Don’t deny it. We have had you under surveillance. We know that he stays with you all night and that he has clothing at your place. We have seen him go to your aparment after work and leave the next morning in a different set of clothing. He is living with you.” “What business is this of yours! What are you, some sick-

os who want to find out about my sex life?” Michele looked a little less pathetic now. I stared at her. “So you admit that you are having sex with Lonnie Simmons.” “God, I don’t admit anything. What is this!” Michele looked at Kent, who had stopped smiling and was staring at her too. “I bet that woman hired you, right? Well, I don’t 12

have to tell you anything. Who do you think you are, coming in here at work—” Kent and I were prepared for this. It was a pretty typical reaction, especially among the passive-aggressive types like this mousy girl. They waited until they were in a corner, then fought back. It was all bluster. We knew that it would be easy , to get through. I nodded to Kent. He hardened his voice. “Have you ever committed any 1

- other felonies before, Michele?”

5

She turned on him. “Any other felonies? What do you mean? I have never committed any felonies, period. I have ,; never broken the law. I don’t even drive above fifty-five; you can ask my friends. What’s your problem?” Kent leaned forward. “Your problem, Michele, is that adultery—” she flinched at the word; people who “make love” never like to hear “adultery”—“is a felony in this state. _ A felony. That means that you can go to prison for five years, 7

» can be fined five hundred dollars, or both. A convicted felon

loses his right to vote. And it’s awfully hard to get a job, or to get a husband, when you’re an ex-con.” Michele was pure white. She was breathing deeply, trying » to catch her breath. Kent didn’t ease up for a minute. “A ! felony. You have already committed it; that’s beyond question. The question is whether you are going to get prosecuted cooperate with us, you won’t be. Otherwise—” 1 for it. If you No one who knew Kent socially would ever dream he could be _ so hard. It was my turn now. “Michele, we have been watching your apartment. We can get depositions and affidavits from your neighbors. We _ have pictures of you and Lonnie coming and going together. We can find out from the post office that his mail is being forwarded to your address.” Michele

burst out, “No, the post office won’t tell you

that. Lonnie checked.”

I knew she was wrong since we do it all the time. I ignored her and went on. “We can get a subpoena. Do you know what a subpoena is? It’s a document forcing you to go to court. We’ll put you on the witness stand, and the prosecuting attorney will ask you point-blank whether you had sex with Lonnie. How would you like that, Michele, being in a courtroom in front of all those people, talking about your sex life? Maybe your mother and father would be there, or

your friends. We know you have a two-year-old daughter; how would you like her to hear that? And the court reporter would be writing down every word you said. You’d be convicted of a felony, Michele. A convicted criminal. Is Lonnie worth that? Would you go to prison for him?” I leaned back and took a breath. That was a lot of talking for me, and I am rarely silent. During my speech, Michele’s head had been dropping lower and lower. Now she put her head on her arms and began to cry. “I don’t know, I don’t know. What do you want me to do? I haven’t done anything wrong!” “Just answer some questions honestly for us,” Kent said. “How long has Lonnie Simmons been living with you?” Michele sobbed. “He’s not exactly living with me, not really. It’s just lately that he seems to be there all the time. I mean, he didn’t take a moving van and bring everything over.” “Does he sleep there every night?” “Yes, I guess so. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Don’t you sleep

there? Where do you sleep?” asked Kent. “Of course I sleep there,” flared Michele, getting a moment’s courage. “It’s my apartment.” Kent continued. “Where do you sleep, exactly? How many bedrooms are there, one, two?” “There are two bedrooms,” replied Michele. 14

“Where does your daughter sleep? Does she have her own room?” Michele wiped her eyes with the back of her hands. I thought she was stalling for time. If she had any sense at all, she could have seen where the questions were going. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders. “Yes, Amanda has her own room. I converted the second bedroom to a nursery when she was born.” “So you sleep in the other bedroom, right? Where does Lonnie sleep? There’s no other bedroom, so he must sleep in your bed, right?” We had a problem if Michele did not tell us out loud what she was doing because we were taping the conversation. We had to get her to tell us that she slept with Lonnie so that when we went into court we would have her confession. Otherwise it would be harder to prove. I flipped my hair over my shoulder and asked again, “Where does Lonnie sleep?” Kent shook his head and said, “We are asking you nicely to tell us where Lonnie sleeps.” “I don’t know!” wailed Michele. I took over again. I lowered my voice. “Michele, are you under a psychiatrist’s care?” Michele looked at me as if I were crazy. “No, of course not!” I raised my voice again. “Then how can you not know whether someone is there in bed with you?” “Okay, he’s in bed with me. That doesn’t mean we have sex!” Kent and I looked at each other, but we decided to let

that go for the moment. Kent took over the questioning. I looked in my purse to make sure the tape recorder was getting all this. Everything was working fine. “When did Lonnie start sharing the bed with you? Was it last year maybe?” 15

“I don’t know,” Michele answered.

“Michele, you know more than you are saying. I’m trying to help you here. Remember, I can get a subpoena and put you on the witness stand. So tell me now, when did Lonnie

start sharing the bed with youe” “Well, we’ve known each other only for a year. I guess we first made lo—uh, started sleeping in the same bed last January. But it was only because it was too late to drive home, and he had been drinking. It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t, you know, adul-

tery—just letting him sleep over so he wouldn't drive drunk. I mean, that’s what you’re supposed to do for friends,” said Michele. “Friends?” I repeated. “Did Lonnie ever ask you to marry him? Did he ever talk about marriage with you?” “I don’t kn—” started Michele, then looked guiltily at Kent. “Well, yeah, I guess so, I’m not sure.”

“Did he ever bring his small children over to visit?” “Sure, to play with Amanda,” said Michele. Kent and I exchanged glances. This was a major admission. We had just found out that a still-married man had taken his very young children over to his mistress’s house. “Did the children spend the night?” Michele just nodded. Her eyes were bright red by now, making her look like a rat. With her blonde, nearly white hair, and her pink nose, she looked like a white mouse running through a maze. I was glad that we had taken her into a separate office. Michele was looking so pitiful by now that any of her coworkers passing by would have rescued her for sure. : “So you're saying that a married man brought his small children over, they stayed the night, and he slept in your bed with you, right?” I asked.

Michele nodded again. Not only had this couple committed

adultery, to which

Michele

16

so freely admitted,

they

were also doing the unthinkable. By allowing the children to spend the night in the same apartment with them, the category “under one roof” would apply. In Oklahoma, a parent can lose custody to the noncustodial parent by allowing the children to be placed in such a situation. If the couple stay in a motel room and the children are in another motel room,

the same rule applies as long as one roof covers all the motel rooms. If the motels are separate units, the rule does not apply. “Roof” is the key word. However, in this latter case, the children’s ages could become a factor. But that’s an entirely separate story.... Kent took up the tale. “You knew Lonnie was married. Did he ever say he would divorce his wife and marry you?” “His wife is a pig, he told me so!” Michele burst out. “A pig.” This case was turning into a barnyard, with Michele Mouse and Teresa Pig. I could see Kent struggling to keep a straight face. I knew what he was thinking: This is all too much like a soap opera. Both of us have laughed many times over the years at how true to the soaps real life can be. The cheating husband really does tell his mistress that his wife doesn’t understand him; the mistress honestly does believe that the wife is a witch. Before Kent could burst out laughing (it would almost have been worth it just to see Michele’s face!), I continued.

“He told you so, Michele? When, in bed? Did he say he was going to divorce her and marry you? Was that pillow talk after you made love? Is that when he was the most romantic?” I asked. Michele just gave me a dirty look. So much for my woman-to-woman appeal. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t. I shuffled some papers and pretended to be examining them. “Our records show that Lonnie has bought you many things that show he thinks of you as a wife.” 17

Despite her misery, Michele brightened up a little. You could tell she liked being thought of that way. It made everything more respectable, somehow. “He bought you a washer, dryer, sofa, and a large, color console television set. ” Actual-

ly, we didn’t have any information on the purchases. But we have found that the best way to get information is to state something as a fact, and let the speaker contradict you. Everyone loves to show up someone else, to throw it in the other person’s face that he or she is wrong. Michele went for the bait right away. “You’re wrong!” she bellows. “We shared the cost of the washer and dryer, and there was no new sofa. And the television, ha! He bought a little black-and-white portable. He’s too cheap to buy anything else!” I knew my client would be happy to hear that. “Too cheap, Michele? But he pays half the rent, half the utilities, and half the phone bill, right?”

Michele snorted. The sound was funny, coming from her. It sounded more like the noise of a pig, not a mouse.

I

shook my head to get away from all these animal comparisons. “Lonnie? He doesn’t pay anything! Ever since he’s moved in, all we’ve done is fight because he won’t pay his share.” I refrained

from

looking

at Kent,

but I knew

he was

thinking the same thing I was—Michele had just admitted that Lonnie had moved in, and that she thought of him as living there permanently enough to share expenses. “I see. He spends his money elsewhere, like on taking you out to nice dinners and dancing, right?” I couldn’t help thinking about Teresa Simmons. She had said that Lonnie was a couch potato and that he was probably, as she so delicately put it, “belching away his evenings in front of the television set.” Lonnie had just exchanged

one

blonde

for

another;

18

his

lifestyle

had

not

changed. I had to wonder for a minute why he bothered. It seemed he didn’t even notice who cooked his dinner or shared his bed. Kent broke in. “He doesn’t share the expenses. He brings his kids over to eat your food. He doesn’t take you out where you want to go. He doesn’t sound like much to me. Michele, are you in love with Lonnie Simmons?” “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not sure.” “But he’s living with you. And you are making love with him now, aren’t you? There’s nothing to be ashamed of if you love him.” Kent had Michele backed into a corner. Either she admitted she made love with Lonnie, something she had been fighting against saying ever since we told her that adultery was a felony, or she made herself look like a tramp. As we figured, pride and shame won. Michele nodded. “Okay, I am in love with him. That’s why we’re together. And I didn’t know making love to someone was a crime in this stupid state. What a dumb law. That is, if it really is a law. How do I know you two are telling me the truth?” Michele was beginning to get a little spirit back. I was glad to see it. Even though it made our job a little harder, it was better to interrogate someone who could handle it. It’s no fun bullying a dishrag. “How many times did you make love to Lonnie Simmons?” Kent asked, mindful of the tape recorder in my purse. Both of us knew enough to mention specific names whenever possible. That way, no smart defense attorney could quibble about pronouns: “Your Honor, the defendant was confused with all the references to ‘him’; she meant a dif-

ferent person!” Michele looked Kent right in the eyes for the first time since the beginning of our conversation. “I don’t carve notches in my bedpost!” Kent and I burst out laughing, and after a moment, 19

Michele joined in hesitantly. It was time for us to change the mood. Up to now, we had been two against one, antagonists. Now we wanted Michele to feel that we were all in this together, united against Lonnie. The mood had lightened. I leaned back in my chair and smiled at Michele. “Okay, let’s be sure we have this. You are a saint—” Michele giggled—“Saint Michelle, supporting not only your own two-year-old daughter, but a forty-year-old bum who makes love to you—” | Michele, looking at Kent, burst in, “Not very well and not nearly often enough!” We all laughed again, and Kent gave Michelle the Look. You could almost see her preening herself. “You support Lonnie Simmons, who lives with you all the time, makes love to you some of the time, and says his wife is a pig!” Michele actually looked pleased with herself. And why not? In fifteen minutes, she had changed from the criminal adulteress to the sainted, supportive woman being used by the big, bad wolf. She nodded several times, and said, “That’s right. Hey, I deserve a medal, don’t I?”

If only the story could end right here, with a happy note. But people revert to form. Michele probably felt the afterglow of our compliments for a few hours, but by the end of the day, she was back to her normal mousy self. She went back home, back to Lonnie, cooked his dinner, paid his bills,

and slept with him. She didn’t mention our visit to him for over a week... and now, she probably will regret for the rest of her life ever mentioning it to him at all. It was on a Saturday afternoon that Lonnie, after a day of watching sports while Michele was cleaning, brought up the subject of divorce. “Michele, this TV sucks. I want something better. I think it’s time I filed for divorce. Teresa and I had two big color TVs; 20

I’m sure I will get at least one of them. In fact, if Teresa and I

go to court, she’s such a bitch that I’m sure the judge will take one look at her and give me the whole shebang. Yeah, that’s what I'll do. I'll take the pig to court and get all my stuff. And hers. After all, Iworked hard for it. She doesn’t deserve it.”

Michele paled. She hadn’t said a word about our visit with her to Lonnie. In truth, she felt a little disloyal to him. She had been extra nice to him since then, trying to assuage her guilty feelings. “Lonnie—Lonnie, stop looking at that TV. I have something to tell you.” Lonnie reluctantly looked away from the ball game and at Michele. “Yeah, what’s for dinner?”

“Uh, this is serious. Your wife hired some private detec-

tives. They came to where I worked last week.” Lonnie sat bolt upright on the sofa. “She what! They did what! How did they know about you? I thought we agreed we wouldn't tell anyone about us. Damn, you didn’t say anything to them, did you? Did you keep your big mouth shut?” Michele hung her head. “Michele, this is serious. I don’t want that bitch knowing about you. She’ll try to take me for everything I have; not that she’s a virgin herself now, I bet. So what did you say?” Michele burst out. “Lonnie, it was awful. They threatened me with a subpoena. They were going to take me to court and make me testify in front of my mother and father, and Amanda, and all my friends. And they were going to ask me all sorts of awful questions, like about our sex and things like that.” Lonnie started to turn red. He jumped off the couch and grabbed Michele. He shook her hard. “They threatened you? And I bet you just caved in, you chickenshit you. Why did you tell them anything? They’re all bluff. They can’t make you do anything. Shit, Michele, how stupid are you?” Lonnie started pacing the room, while Michele was cry24

ing. She sniffed, “They could too do something. They told me that adultery—they called it adultery—was against the law in Oklahoma. It’s a felony. Did you know that, Lonnie? We could both go to prison and have criminal records for the rest of our lives.” Lonnie was pacing faster and faster, and his breath started coming in short gasps. As Michele went on, telling Lonnie how she had been “tricked” into saying they were having sex, his face became bright red. At the point where Michele said she had admitted everything, Lonnie swore loudly and long without pausing for a breath. When he finally stopped, he tore out of the house, slamming the screen door behind him,

and ended up in the front yard. He was waving his fists and his mouth was moving, as if he were trying to shout, but no sound was coming out. A very scared Michele, following him outdoors, could only hear some wheezing. Lonnie stopped in the middle of the lawn next to Amanda’s sandbox. Suddenly, his legs gave out and he crumpled to the ground. He was perspiring heavily and clutching his chest. For a few minutes, he rocked to and fro on the grass, always grabbing his chest, breathing hard. Michele ran to him, but she didn’t know what to do. As she was watching, Lonnie began turning blue. Michele was frantic, yelling Lonnie’s name over and over again. She was stunned by how quickly everything had happened and afraid to get too close to Lonnie for fear he would strike her. She just stood there, screaming his name. Then Lonnie stopped moving and lay perfectly still. He was dead of a heart attack.

Epilogue We saw Michele and Teresa one more time each. Michele came by to tell us what had happened. Somehow, afze

ter the grilling we had given her, she felt we had become “friends.” She came by and sobbed for over an hour. I felt that listening to her was the least I could do, apart from needing to know professionally exactly what had happened. The last time I heard anything about Michele, she was still living in the same apartment and working at Vanities. Teresa was notified by the police as the next of kin. Naturally, she was shocked. She spent a few days softening and thinking of the “few good times we had, long ago, in another lifetime,” as she put it. By the time she came into our Office,

however, she was all business again. Teresa walked over to my desk and stood there in front of me. “I want to thank you for all the work you did on the case. I’m sorry Lonnie’s dead, but I think he brought it on himself. At any rate, that solves my problems very well. I don’t have to worry about losing anything in a divorce; everything is automatically mine now. Well, I guess there are a few things of his that his mistress has, but I don’t care about those. If

you talk to her, tell her she can keep them. And tell her, please, not to get any romantic, maudlin ideas about calling me so we can weep over Lonnie together. I intend to forget him as quickly as I can.” Teresa reached into her purse and pulled out her check book. “You deserve a good check for a good job. Hand me your pen, and I'll just sit down and write this out to you right This time, Teresa chose the armchair.

23

CHAPTER

2

The Blind Pencil Salesman Like you, I was raised on the tales of Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe, and Nancy Drew. When I opened my private investigator’s

office,

I was

convinced

that

some

sinister,

scarred

stranger would stumble over my threshold, gasp his last breath, and mutter “Zanzibar” as he expired on my Persian carpet. Of course, the reality rarely lives up to the anticipa-

tion. Most of my clients are plump, polyester-clad matrons who scuff the linoleum floor of my office with their pumps and spill coffee (“two Sweet’n Lows, no cream, please”) on

my desk. That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy my job. Sometimes, it’s the plump, polyester types who provide the most fascinating cases. Take Debra Ronconi. Thanks to her, I was introduced to the Case of the Blind Pencil Salesman, a case

with an ending that hard-boiled detective RotGut hidden in his Debra’s story was

would have surprised even the most and sent him scurrying for the bottle of desk drawer. fairly common, up to a point. She was

a relatively unattractive woman married to an attractive man

twelve years her junior, and she was worried that he was cheating on her. When Debra got to this point in her story, she pulled out a picture of herself and her husband and shoved it across the desk to me. I looked at it, then at her,

then at the picture again. If this hunk had married Debra, 20

there must be more to her than met the eye. Debra was not much to look at. Only thirty-two, she looked a decade older. She was considerably overweight, with the kind of heaviness that isn’t homey and comforting, calling to mind your favorite grandma baking cookies for you, but a flabbiness that made you not want to sit too close to her on a bench or a bus seat. She was short, only about five-foot-

one, and had mousy brown hair with strands of gray. She seemed the kind of woman who would stand in front of the mirror in the morning and carefully pull out each gray hair with her tweezers, fully aware that she was losing the battle. The least attractive thing about her to me was her hands. They were hard and callused and very large for her, large enough to belong to a man twice her size. She caught me looking at them and held them up. “I just can’t grow nails for the life of me. I guess I should tell you that I am a secretary. With all the typing I do every day, my nails never get a chance to grow.” We looked at her hands together. I shook my head to get out of it the picture of this woman wedged into a chair, pounding away at a keyboard with those muscular fingers. I looked again at the picture of her and her husband, focusing with pleasure on the man. My first reaction to him was a fleeting wish that I were single again. No wonder Debra was concerned about this man’s fidelity; he probably had women chasing him all the time. He looked to be the stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome male. The picture showed a dark-skinned man with thick dark hair,

a wide smile, and sparkling brown eyes. I looked up and found Debra staring at me, waiting for me to say something. I smiled and said carefully, “You two make a lovely couple. You look beautiful, and your husband is a very handsome man. What gorgeous eyes he has!” Debra surprised me by bursting out laughing. When I asked her what was so funny, she leaned back and said, “Well, 26

I told you I was a secretary. How good a guesser are you about

people’s jobs? What job would you say my husband had?” I returned her grin and thought for a moment. Obviously the job had to have something to do with eyes, otherwise she would not have brought it up right after my comment. “Is Bobby an ophthalmologist, or an optician?” More laughter from Debra and a shake of the head. “Does he manufacture sunglasses perhaps?” I thought Debra was going to fall out of the armchair from laughing so hard. I was beginning to think that I had gotten a client who had more of a mental or emotional problem than a problem a private investigator can solve. Debra caught me looking funnily at her, wiped her eyes, and straightened up. “I’m sorry, Paula, it’s just that it felt so good to laugh. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to laugh about anything to do with my husband.” She had another burst of laughter, and then she bit her lip.

I looked at the clock, flipping my long hair over my shoulder, and wondered if we were going to get to the point pretty soon. Debra had been here fifteen minutes already, and I still didn’t know what she wanted me to do. It was time to get back to business. “Debra, I’m glad you find me funny. But unless it is important to the case, what your husband does for a living—” Debra interrupted me. “He’s a pencil salesman!” I was mildly irritated. “A salesman? That’s nice. I’m sure he’s a good one. Now, about what you want me to do—” Debra leaned forward, knocking a basket full of papers off my desk and onto the floor. “No, you still don’t get it. Look at Bobby’s eyes again! He’s blind! Those sparkling brown eyes are blind! He’s a pencil salesman for the International Foundation for the Blind.” How do you respond to a statement like that? What can rat

you say! “I’m sorry!” is condescending, and “Aha! That explains the marriage!” is rude. When in doubt, fall back on the yellow pad. I pulled one toward me that Debra hadn't managed to topple to the carpet. “I need more information. You are a secretary. Your husband, who is blind, sells pencils. You want to know whether

he is cheating on you. Please tell me why you think he might be unfaithful. Go into the details, if you would.” I sat there with my pen, in my best no-nonsense pose, flipping my hair over my shoulder with one hand. Debra took the hint and began talking. I had to admit that she did have a reason to doubt her husband. It seems that their house had a telephone in the den. The den door had a lock on it. Most evenings, Bobby would lock himself in the den. He refused to let Debra in, saying the den was his hideaway, the only place he could be by himself to think. Debra could hear Bobby tiptoe to the door of the den and stand very still, as if he were listening for where Debra was in the house. If he seemed satisfied that she was nowhere near the den, he would cross over to the telephone and begin making calls. Debra had me trying to keep from laughing as she described the cat-and-mouse game she and her husband would play. All the floors in the house were wooden, with no carpeting. Bobby had insisted on having the carpeting pulled up when they moved in, saying that he needed to be able to hear people walking around. With his sense of hearing heightened because of his blindness, he was excellent at pinpointing where Debra was at any given moment. Debra went to a remnant store and bought several yards of carpet samples. When Bobby went into the den as usual that night, she pulled out the vacuum.

She vacuumed

right

up to the door of the den, calling out to Bobby that she would be through in just a minute. Unknown to her hus28

band, as Debra was vacuuming, she was laying down the car-

pet in a direct path right to the den’s door, the vacuuming noise hiding what she was doing. When she finished running the sweeper, she called a cheery, “That’s all, honey; sorry for

the noise!” to Bobby and made a lot of clamor putting away the vacuum

cleaner in the closet. She waited a few minutes,

then tiptoed on the carpeted path to the door of the den. It worked! She was able to sit there and hear every word of Bobby’s calls. That evening Bobby called two different women and spoke to them as if they were lovers, discussing intimate things that only sweethearts talk about. Debra sat on the floor, crying softly as she heard her husband saying to other women the kind of loving things she wanted to hear. Up to now, I had been choking back the laughter as I heard how Debra outsmarted her husband. But now, looking at the betrayed wife’s face as she confided her pain to a stranger, I realized that this was not all a game. I felt a little

ashamed of myself for taking it so flippantly. I came around the desk and sat in the chair next to my client. I had the box of Kleenex ready. The Kleenex (which I buy by the gross; I think private investigators should get a discount on the stuff!) ran out at about the same time as the story. Debra told me how Bobby forbade her to answer the telephone when he was home, saying always that he preferred to get it himself. When she protested, he tried to play on her guilt, saying things like, “I can’t watch television like you can; why deprive me of the one thing, talking on the phone, that does give me pleasure?” Worse yet, when Bobby was not home and Debra did answer the telephone, she often heard women’s voices asking for Bobby. Debra would ask the women who they were, only to be told, “Oh, just a friend.” When she confronted her husband, he became angry and said that he was entitled to a,

friends and that he didn’t cross-examine her every time a friend of hers telephoned. Bobby had blown up so often at

Debra that she was now afraid to say anything to him. For several months, she had been listening to his conversations with other women, taking calls from other women, and crying her eyes out without confronting her husband. She finally decided she had to have proof to determine whether there was more to the story than merely telephone conversations. She came to me to discover how involved Bobby might be. I let Debra have a good cry when she finished her story (more Kleenex! And people wonder what the “and expenses” portion of a private investigator’s bill covers!), then I waited while she got hold of herself again. She looked up and thanked me for the cup of coffee I had shoved in her hand. I had, however, taken care to move all the papers off my desk and picked up all the ones she’d knocked to the floor before I let her have her coffee. I asked Debra when Bobby would have a chance to cheat

on her, when I might be able to catch him. She said that Bobby often went out of town on business, attending meetings or conventions of the International Foundation for the Blind. In fact, Bobby had one this next week, Thursday through Sunday. Debra, as usual, was not invited to attend, fobbed off

with the excuse that it was purely business and that the others didn’t take their spouses. The task was pretty straightforward. I would follow Bobby and bring back to Debra a report and photos. I warned Debra that I didn’t hold out much hope for a happy ending, but that I would bring her the truth, no matter what it was. With that, and a promise to call her as soon as I found out

something, I escorted her out of my office. Tony came in while I was picking up the Kleenex from the floor. “Hi, Mom! Say, when is this office ever going to get a 30

client who is young, shapely, blonde, and mysterious?” he wanted to know. “We've already had one. Don’t you remember the missing golden retriever we reunited with its owner? Now there was a beautiful creature with animal magnetism.” I smiled at my oldest son. “If Iso much as acknowledge that, I will only be encouraging you, so let’s just forget it. But what was that all about? Anything I can help you with?” My office is a family affair, with all my three sons working for me. Tony, the eldest, looks and sounds like Sam Elliott; he

moves his head and eyes in the same sexy fashion. The joke in the office is that he is the head of personnel management. Whenever we want to hire a new office worker—female—we have her interviewed by Tony. It’s amazing how quickly she’ll come aboard. But there’s more to my number-one son than that (surely you realized that an eldest son in a detective’s office can’t escape being called Number-One Son by everyone?) He was the first of my children to express an interest in joining the company. He is a hard worker, with great instincts. He seems to know what is going to happen before it takes place. If he weren’t a private investigator, he’d make a great riverboat gambler or a race-course handicapper. I filled Tony in on the case and showed him the picture that Debra had left with me. We decided to follow Bobby this weekend, and Tony went out to make the arrangements. That Thursday evening found us in Norman, Oklahoma, in the banquet room of a luxurious hotel. Tony had managed to locate and bribe the bus driver who was bringing the blind “conventioneers” to the weekend

event. The driver, named

Sam, had given Tony a copy of the weekend’s calendar, with red checks next to the events he thought Bobby was likely to attend. The first checked event was the one we were at now. “According to this itinerary,” I droned to Tony, “this is ol

the ‘Social gathering to get to know your counterparts.’ ” Tony nudged me and pointed to a corner table. “There's Bobby, and it looks as if he is trying to get to know her counterparts, and all her other parts as well!” I started to look discreetly out of the corner of my eye, then heard Tony laughing. I looked at him. “Mom, everyone in this ballroom is blind except the band members. Go ahead and stare to your heart’s content!” I joined in the laughter, then turned around and looked at the table Tony had indicated. He was right; it was Bobby sitting there. My first reaction was that he was even handsomer in person than in the picture. This young man could have been a model. And forget the myth about blind people not caring about their appearance. Bobby had on a silk shirt in the latest style, pleated pants, and gold jewelry. His hair had even been moussed. Right now, his hair, or more specifically,

the top of his head, was almost all I could see of him. He had his arm around the woman who was sharing his table and their

heads

were

together,

almost

buried

in each

other’s

necks. Tony took a look at the woman and let out a soft wolf whistle. “Wzzz! That’s certainly not the wife I saw leaving our office the other day! What a fox!” “IT wonder how he knows that she is so beautiful? Does someone tell him? Maybe he can feel her face and tell, do you think?” I really was curious. Tony was laughing again. “Jeez, this takes me back to high school and nights in the dark sitting in my little Camaro, when my dates would always giggle and say things like, “Tony, I’m saving myself for marriage, so don’t be feeling my body.’ ” He stared at Bobby, whose hands were all over the woman. “I wonder what kind of lines he uses on women? I wonder how differently blind women respond to a pass than sighted women?” 4

“It’s time to get our minds on the job, young man,” I reminded my son. “Let’s see whether we can get closer to Bobby and record some of his conversations.” As usual, I had my

tape recorder with me in my purse. We got up and danced a number, although Tony was very reluctant at first when I asked to dance with him. He still considers me old enough to be his mother, for some unknown reason. After the music ended, we sat down at a table

right next to Bobby’s. “Mom,” Tony hissed, “someone is already sitting here. That’s someone’s shawl and purse, and there are two drinks here.” The music began again. I patted Tony on the shoulder. “Oooooh, my, you must be a private investigator. Did you deduce that all by your little old self? Of course someone is sitting here, but as you pointed out earlier, everyone in the room but us and the band is blind. When someone comes back to the table, we’ll see them coming and move. Now be

quiet so that the recorder can pick up Bobby and not you.” We sat there and listened to Bobby and his date, whose named turned out to be Louise. From their conversation, it

was apparent that they were coworkers and that they had come to several of these functions together. It was also very clear that they had slept together for more than a year, as Bobby talked about the garter belt he had bought Louise for their one-year anniversary. I filled up tape after tape that

evening. Most of the conversation was pretty predictable (I found out more about Bobby’s sexual preferences than I ever wanted to know, quite frankly), but one thing puzzled me a

bit. Bobby talked once about his mother, how good she was ‘to him, how much he cared for her, how much she needed

him. Tony leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “You didn’t say anything about a mother. When does he have time for her, with all the other women

33

in his life?”

I shrugged. Clients are always leaving out information. They feel that something isn’t important or that I already know, and they just neglect to mention it. It happened all the time. I decided that Debra just took her mother-in-law for granted and didn’t bring her up. The evening rolled on. Bobby and Louise became more than a little drunk, knocking back Scotch and soda. They danced several times, holding each other closely and moving smoothly. Louise’s tall and slender body fit together well with Bobby’s. I thought for a moment about Debra and wondered what she looked like dancing with her husband, and whether

he even took her dancing at all. At around stretched.

midnight,

Tony

gave

a huge

yawn

and

“The glamorous life we all lead, the glamorous life,” he sang. Since Bobby and Louise (or, as Tony called her, Luscious Louise) were out on the dance floor, it was safe to talk. Be-

sides, I had to do something or I would fall asleep. “Don’t gripe. Here you are sitting in the middle of downtown Norman, Oklahoma, with a gorgeous woman, and dancing the night away. Who could ask for anything more?” I teased. “And drinking the nectar of the gods, too, don’t forget!” Tony lifted the nearly empty vodka bottle. Years ago, we had learned to BYOB (bring your own bottle). We always had a vodka bottled filled with 7-up. We would place it on the table and refill our glasses periodically. The trick worked like a charm. My investigators are never allowed to drink alcohol while working a case. They would not be very efficient investigators if they were drunk. So once again we carried our own fake alcohol with us. The only problem we had was when drunks would want to come over and share our bottle. That happened once on a stakeout at a divorce party... but that’s 34

another story. Tonight, everything was going very smoothly. I kept my eye on the dancers. “Uh oh, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers are leaving. Let’s go. I'll follow them up to their room while you check us in.” I tailed the couple, which wasn’t as easy as it sounds. They stopped every ten feet or so for a big smooch. Do you know how conspicuous I felt pressed against a wall watching a couple practically undressing each other in the hallway? No matter how many times I told myself that the other people passing by were blind, I felt as if everyone were staring at me and branding me a Peeping Tom. You get used to a lot of the observation you do as a detective, but I still have trouble dealing with much of it. Romantic sexual encounters are some of those less desirable experiences, from a viewing standpoint,

in which I would prefer not to become involved. I remember one case in which my voyeurism was vital to the outcome of a custody battle. I represented a young father, whose baby girl was in the care of her mother. The mother entertained men in her bedroom where the child shared the same bed. Sidney Armstrong (my male investigator who reminds me of a giant big, lovable, cuddly teddy bear) and I befriended the mother, were invited to party at her apartment, where we pretended to be drunk. Sidney and I took turns opening up the bedroom door, slurring our speech, and on the pretext of wanting more alcohol, asked the mother to direct us to the nearest liquor store. We watched in horror as the mother repeatedly had sex with her boyfriend, while the two-year-old, still wide awake, requested

they stop shaking the bed. Another case I worked alone one evening at a topless gogo night club. My mission was to prove community standards—the dancers were accused of exposing more than merely their “tops’—and to determine whether they were “baring it all,” I had to stare at their every move. It was an ex35

tremely embarrassing situation for me as I wondered how many patrons thought I was a lesbian, just out for the night enjoying the view. After my first night at the club, I enlisted the services of another agent (male) so he would stare and I

could merely sit there. I was not enjoying Bobby and Louise’s romantic moments any more than I enjoyed the scene at the nightclub or the horror at the apartment dwelling. But Iam considered to be a professional voyeur doing what I get paid to do. I saw the Siamese twins safely to Room 501 and went back down to the lobby. Tony was standing there with the same look he had on his face when he was three years old. (He had been standing next to his dresser staring into the red water in his fish bowl. FiFi and MiMi, the two gold fish

he’d named by himself, could not be seen swimming around. When I asked how that happened, he looked up at me with those innocent-looking baby blue eyes and shook his head. “Well, I had to make them well. FiFi and MiMi were coughing their little heads off, so Igave them some cough medicine.” I noticed that the bottle was empty and setting next to the fish bowl. I covered my mouth with my hand to stifle a giggle, as he continued. “FiFi and MiMi were doing like this—” he puckered up his tiny lips, then drew them back a few times to demonstrate. Any normal human over the age of three would have realized that what Tony had witnessed was the fish breathing. And at least that story had a happy ending. After our cleaning out the fish bowl and adding fresh water, the fish survived.) “I know that look, and it’s the mother, not the private in-

vestigator talking. What’s wrong? Can’t they find our reservationse” I was tired, bloated with too much 7-up, and ready for a nice comfortable bed. Tony gave me his best winning smile, hugged me, and

36

told me that I was beautiful. (A common ploy when he wanted money or desired to be excused for making some tragic mistake. )

“Save it, Romeo. It’s wasted on your mother. What’s the trouble?” I asked. “Somehow, I forgot to make us a reservation. And the hotel is completely full.” I plopped down in a chair in the foyer. “I beg your pardon?” Tony sat down next to me. I didn’t have it in my heart to scold him too much since he looked as tired as I felt. It’s not a thrill a minute sitting in a dance hall with your own mother. Tony not only couldn’t talk to me (because of the tape recorder), he couldn't catch the eye of the beautiful women (for obvious reasons!) and flirt with them.

“I’m sorry. I got so involved in talking to the bus driver and getting Bobby’s itinerary that I didn’t think about a reservation. I guess in the back of my mind, I thought there would always be rooms.” Tony sounded exhausted. “No more rooms at the inn, eh? Well, it looks as if we get the Corvette Suite. Dibs on the backseat.” I picked up my weary bones and started outside to the parking lot. It would not be the first time I had spent the night in a car. “Uh, Mom? My Corvette is a sports car—it doesn’t have a backseat!” We had a few more investigative services to perform, before we could begin to rest almost comfortably. First, we would make sure Bobby and Louise were in their room for the night. We would make sure by using our handy-dandy roll of invisible tape to securely fasten their door. It is placed across a portion of the door and the door frame, enabling us to know when they leave their room. If the tape stayed secured on the door, they did not leave. If it were broken, we

al

would know they had opened the door. Second, we would take turns throughout the night checking up on the tape, noting the time on a yellow pad. I spent the night (after taking turns with Tony checking up on the tape security) sitting bolt upright in the passenger seat of a vehicle built for very short people. I’m not an Amazon, barely five-foot-two, but I swear the only people who could have spent the night comfortably in that seat were those who didn’t measure up to the “You must be this tall to ride!” signs at Disneyland. Being a mother, I know well how to get my revenge. “That Louise was a beautiful girl, wasn’t she, Tony?” I

purred. “I wonder what she and Bobby are doing right now. Oh well, sweet dreams.” As I turned to the side and tried to

get comfortable, I could tell Tony’s body tensed and I heard him groan. I knew that he would get little sleep that night. After our checking up on the tape five different times at one-hour intervals, the alarm on Tony’s watch woke us up again. We got out of the car, stiff and sore, a more

than a lit-

tle uncomfortable from having on the same clothes. And there’s one more thing the television shows don’t tell you when they show a stakeout—the scent of two bodies crammed together in a small space for several hours is rather strong. In fact, you could bottle it, call it Nine Hours in a Corvette, and sell it as an insect repellent. No self-respecting bug would get anywhere near it. The taste in our mouths

could be poured over little wadded-up balls of chewing tobacco and used for fishing bait. My makeup was embedded in the cracks of my face and felt like I’d just had a facial and forgot to wash off the mask. It’s the one that draws the skin tighter and tighter until it feels as if a viselike grip has been fastened tightly across the face. My nylons were stuck to my legs, except when I stood up.

They had a mind of their own. When I sat down, they sat 38

down, but when I stood up, they stayed seated. Tony said he felt as if he’d been run over by a Mack truck, and I shared his feelings. He wouldn’t look in the mir-

ror, but I made that mistake. I saw a reflection of a face with cake like clusters of mascara squashed into the corners of my eyes just begging to be washed out or at least shaken off. It was time to do what I’d done so many times before— think about quitting my job. I had wished my boss would fire me many times, but then I always remembered that I am the boss. Knowing that did not make me feel any better; only rest and a nice shower could do that. We went into the hotel and hung around Bobby and Louise’s door. The tape had stayed in place all night, so they didn’t leave their room. Tony carefully and quietly removed it now. Our work was finished, but we stuck around for an-

other hour just to watch them come out of their room. When they emerged they were sparkling clean and smelling of soap and perfume. Tony and I wanted to strangle them. Instead, we settled for following them down to the dining room and watching them get started on their breakfast. “As much as I hate to say it, Number-One Son, it’s Corvette time again. We have now established that Bobby is indeed cheating on his wife. It’s time to go home. And if you pass a river along the way, pour Tide over my body and just toss me in.” I turned and headed for the car. The next day, after a good night’s sleep and several hot showers, I called Debra, asking her to come into the office. I

gave her a summary of our findings and handed her the Kleenex box. I also gave her transcribed copies of the cassette tape recordings we made, so she could read them at home. (We never give the client the tape recordings. We must keep them in our possession, in case we need them for court. If they are out of our possession, they become inadmissible as evidence in a court of law. Basically, the reason is 39

that they could be altered and we must prevent that from happening.) All in all, Debra took the news pretty well. It was only a few hours later that I took a call from her. “Paula, there’s something odd here. It sounds like what Bobby would say, of course, but are you sure that all of the words on this transcription are his?” What a strange question. “Of course I’m sure; we were

right next to him. What’s the problem?” “Bobby talked about his mother, but she died when he was only twelve.” “Well, the death of a parent when you're younger can have a long-lasting traumatic effect on you.” Debra’s voice came back slowly. “Nooooo, no, it’s not that. Bobby was in a school for the blind and hardly knew her. Her death didn’t affect him enough for him to be talking about her now.” I shifted in my nice comfortable chair. Why can’t the people who make office equipment put seating in cars? “Maybe, Debra, he just wanted to impress Louise with what a sensitive man he is and thought talking about his mother would show that.” I was getting a little impatient. It seemed to me as if Debra were making a big deal out of nothing. Maybe she was trying to focus on one little point and make a mystery out of it in order to postpone facing the truth, that her blind husband was seeing other women—you should forgive the pun. “Paula, would you follow Bobby again? I know you did a great job this last time, but I really want more than just one time for proof. Please. He’s leaving a week from Friday for another convention,” said Debra. This happens a lot in my job. I sometimes think that I should have a motto above the door, “You Won’t Believe Your

Eyes!” No matter how red-handed a cheating spouse is, the 40

faithful spouse wants additional proof. I was halfway prepared for the request. We

watch

the

cheating

spouse,

tell the

client,

who

promises not to tell the spouse, but fails to keep her or his word. She agrees to forgive him provided he never does it again. He promises, and then she calls my office, she wants him followed again. This time it is to find out whether he lied when he promised to be faithful now. (If only she remembered that at one time he promised “till death do us part,” she would know he is lying again.) Naturally, he proves he lied and he’s caught again and again and again. I call it the merry-go-round effect. There is no end to it. I had one client who refused to believe his wife was having an affair with his best friend, specifically because they were best friends. I proved otherwise, but he would not believe me. He believed the “lovers” enjoyed a mere platonic relationship and no more. His belief in her was finally shattered when a few months passed and she divorced my client and married his best friend. I find that my clients fail to realize that I charge an hourly fee, no matter what the spouse may be doing. The cost is exactly the same for the suspected spouse to be having an extramarital affair or be teaching Sunday school in a nearby church. Another thought my clients sometimes fail to consider is that I do not become emotionally involved in their marital situation. Therefore, I can still do a professional job, wellthought out and thorough. The betrayed spouse might use threats or force or worse if the investigation were left up to him to conduct. Obviously, it is better left in the hands of an experienced private investigator. The general public does not think like an investigator, and that is understandable. Many clients request that I follow the spouse repeatedly when the results are never changing. The only time that is a 4]

good idea is when the lovers involved are different. For court purposes once is enough, but for the spouse’s satisfaction that the affair was only a one-time incident, more investigation is required. Some clients will forgive a one-time affair, but the most typical client is reluctant to stand by her man when he is stretched out horizontally by several women. Knowing that Debra would probably ask for further investigative surveillance, I was prepared when she called and not surprised in the least. “Okay, Debra, just give me the details...” This time I made the reservations at the hotel myself. In fact, we managed to get rooms on either side of Bobby. This time we took a lot of photographs, as well as taking more audio-cassette recordings. Tony wanted to take the video camera and get videos, but I thought that would be overkill. “Remember, Tony, that if you give Debra those video tapes, she is going to keep them forever and play them hundreds of times over the rest of her life. And every time she sees her husband with another woman,

the pain will be like

new. The audio tapes are enough. Along with our testimony, those tapes will prove adultery and Debra can get what she asks in divorce court. Remember that proving adultery is no longer

necessary

in order

to obtain

a divorce.

However,

proof of adultery will enable her to benefit from a material

standpoint.” (In Oklahoma there is no community property law. A spouse with ample proof can take everything her husband owns, except his clothing. He is left with those and his job, of course.) Tony and I made a bet going up to the convention on who Bobby’s female companion would be. Tony was con-

vinced that no man would drop a woman like Luscious Louise and that there would be a repeat performance. I bet the opposite, that there would be a new woman. Bobby’s phone calls from several different women convinced me of 42

|

|

this. If Debra had not told me about the variety of women who called,

I would have been positive Bobby would be with

the same woman every time. It had been my experience that men always have only one girlfriend when they are cheating. Based on my experience as an investigator, women are at the opposite extreme. They always cheat with several men. They project their attitudes and blame their husbands for having several girlfriends too. During my _ sixteen-year tenure, I could recall only one man who broke the rule of conduct, having several girlfriends. For this reason I believed we would discover that Bobby fell into the same category. We saw Bobby walk in with another woman on his arm. This one was even taller than he was, with short, bright red

hair and Shirley Temple dimples. Different actress, same script. The couple went dancing glued together and giggled their way down the corridor to their shared hotel room. Tony and I worked in shifts; one slept, while the other watched the couple and their motel door. We were able to get a pretty good night’s sleep using this method and went back with our proof the following day. Normally, Tony and I would not have gone again on this same surveillance. We

would have traded off with another male/female operative. However, we were not concerned with being recognized (for obvious reasons). On any case in which sighted people are involved, we would have utilized the services of another cou-

ple. This way we would avoid arousing suspicion. Debra received the new information in silence, along with the photographs. Her only comment was, “One more time, please? He’s going on another trip next weekend.” I tried to reason with Debra. “You know this is costing you a lot of money, don’t you? Apart from our fee of fifty dollars an hour per investigator, there are the travel expenses, and the hotel and food, and of course the cost of transcrib-

ing the tape recordings. You have plenty of proof for a good 43

divorce settlement and more than enough to be sure in your own mind. Why put yourself through this? I know you were hoping it would turn out to be merely a ‘one-night stand,’ but now it’s too late for that. We know better.” (If it had been a one-night stand, a situation that only occurs once, she

would have forgiven him and forgotten the matter. That tends to be the pattern among most women.) A betrayed spouse learns to stop loving the cheating spouse, making it easier to go through with a divorce. Discovering more and more about the unfaithfulness causes her to learn to dislike and distrust him. She can survive a divorce much more easily. Now on the opposite end, there is the woman

who would

never

divorce

him, no

matter what he

does. Her reasoning is “I like my bread buttered on both sides.” She is usually well-established in the community, is respected, and has a family. This type of woman prefers a good life to a happy marriage. Her husband is the provider of all the good things in life she has learned to take for granted: a nice home, material possessions, and a satisfying reputation. I laugh sometimes when I think about this, because that is probably the exact reason he is unfaithful. Her marriage doesn’t matter to her; the possessions do. Those who use my services want to know what the spouse is doing, even when they never plan to change the situation. They have a need to know for some reason. Invariably, the betrayed spouse insists on knowing all about the “other woman or man,” whichever the case may be. What he or she looks like appears to be the main interest, where the person lives and works, his or her educational

background

and lastly, but not necessarily the least important question remains: How old is she or he? This latter question is vital to the wronged spouse in order to determine whether the “other” person is younger or older than the wronged spouse. It may come as a complete shock to many who read this, 44

but in the majority of those cases of infidelity that I have worked, the “other” woman or man rarely turns out to be as beautiful or as handsome as the “cheated on” spouse. In fact, it is so rare that while searching my files, I discovered only two parties in sixteen years whose appearance was better than the respective female clients and no men who were better looking than the male clients. Appearance is not the only characteristic a disloyal spouse downplays when he or she strays. In the matter of the unfaithful husband, I have discovered that he tends to lean

toward women who are not as intelligent as his wife, and rarely is the “other woman” an independent person. Perhaps this is why men become so conceited when they have girlfriends who make them feel big and strong. The straying spouse (male) seems to enjoy those women who are so weak they cannot possibly dress and/or undress themselves. Wives should consider learning to deceive their husbands a wee bit more by pretending they cannot do everything for themselves. Men love that type of woman. As to what I believe women resent and the cause of their infidelity is that men do not listen to them. Beyond that it appears that everything is in some way related to and caused by the lack of communication on the part of husbands. The lack of communication has been the number-one factor in causing women

to stray, according to what I have learned as an in-

vestigator. When I tell male clients about this theory, they usually laugh, then ask me why I think their spouses cheat. You see, they just don’t listen. Somehow I believed this was the problem between Debra and Bobby Ronconi. “Do you want to go through this all over again, Debra? You and I both know that the results will, no doubt, be the

same as before. What do you want to do?” I asked. Debra just shook her head. I noticed that there were more gray hairs than before and wondered whether she had 45

just given up bothering to pluck them. “I still love him. I just want to know one more time. Maybe the other ones were unusual; maybe he doesn’t do this all the time. Please, Paula, this is the last time; I promise

you.” And speaking about males who fail to listen, here is Debra behaving like a man. I flipped my hair back over my shoulder with the back of my left hand and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Okay, the last time. Tony and I will follow your husband this weekend and get more of the same proof. But that’s the last for us, agreed? We don’t want you throwing away your money getting the same information over and over again.” Debra stood up. “I know this sounds silly, but I have the feeling that this weekend is going to be different. There is something new that’s going to happen. I can just feel it.” As Tony and I were driving up to the hotel (“Mom, we've got to drop this case. Do you know how much my reputation has suffered, spending three weekends in a hotel with my own mother?”), I told him about Debra’s feeling. “Yeah, right,” Tony scoffed, shaking his fist at a driver who had just done a U-turn in front of him. “The only different thing is the woman. The first one was brunette, the next redhead. I betcha this one will be blonde. It beats me how a blind man can find a variety.” “Let’s try to do an extra careful and thorough job anyway, Okay, dear? I want to be able to give Debra everything we've got this time,” I said. Tony was right about the woman. Her name was Tammy, and she was a blonde. As Tony and I sat close to the couple and eavesdropped on them, we amused ourselves by writing notes to each other on cocktail napkins. The name of the game was Predict the Conversation. We had listened to Bobby’s line twice before and felt we knew it by heart. 46

I wrote: “1. Tell the woman

how good she feels, how soft

her skin is, how lovely her hair smells.” We listened to Bobby dojust that. Tony wrote: “2. Tell the lady how good she makes you feel, how you get lightheaded around her.” Bobby was right on cue. As I wrote, “Tell the woman she floats like a feather in your arms,” our boy Bobby veered from the normal exchange. He began talking about his mother again. Remembering what Debra had said about Bobby’s mother being deceased and how strange Debra had found the conversation, I listened intently. “Tammy, you have to understand. My mother has no one but me. My father died years ago. We’ve always been there for each other. I don’t know what she would do without me,”

said Bobby. Tony and I exchanged looks. He wrote on the napkin: “Using Mom as excuse not to get married!” I nodded. Bobby continued, “She’s getting on in years now. That’s why I have to live with her.” Tony and I looked at each other again. I think he began to get the idea of what was going on a split second before I was. “And Mom is a little jealous of me. Let’s face it, she’s plenty jealous. She’s always cross-examining me about my relationships. That’s why when you call me, she seems to screech at you and wants to know who you are. Just tell her youre a friend and hang up. If she knows your name, I'll never hear the end of it.” Tony actually shoved his hand into his mouth and bit down hard on it to keep from laughing. I put my head down on the table and just shook. Finally, the puzzle pieces had all fallen into place. Bobby was telling his girlfriends that Debra, his wife, was his mother!

47

Tony and I left shortly after that. We didn’t trust ourselves to hear more. It’s a good thing we didn’t get pulled over by a cop on the way home because we were both laughing so hard the car was weaving on the highway. As soon as we got home, I had a strict talk with myself in the mirror, reminding myself to be professional. Then I called Debra and told her the whole story. She was devastated. Knowing she was rather plain, she had always been sensitive about her looks. And naturally, she

was aware of the big age difference between her husband and herself, but she had always believed him when he said it made no difference to the way he felt about her. She was deeply hurt to find out not only that her husband had a harem but that the harem thought she was his mother! Debra confronted Bobby and kicked him out of the house as soon as he got home from his latest weekend delight. She filed for divorce a few days later. The last we heard, she was moving to Texas and hoping to start a new life. And Tony and I? We still talk about the case. We learned a lot. We learned how little we truly know about the blind and how unconsciously patronizing and condescending we had been. We were wrong to underestimate the charms and physical capabilities of a man just because he was blind. But our favorite lesson was how convoluted human nature is and how wonderfully ironic the life of a private investigator can be. Maybe Tony put it best when he summarized the case as “a mother and son pretending to be a husband and wife to catch a husband cheating on his wife, whom

calls his mother.” Go figure it @ut.

48

he

CHAPTER 3

Bloody Baby, Sterile Nurse “I'm not letting any bloody baby into my van—do you have any idea how hard blood is to get out of the upholstery? I’m a nurse; I know how messy these things are!” Angela Evans rearranged her nearly two-hundredpound, five-foot body more comfortably on the van seat and shook her finger at her husband. George was only half-listening, fascinated by the scene in front of him. “George Evans, you sit right where you are. I don’t want you to leave this van!” Angela put out a pudgy hand and grabbed her husband’s arm so hard that he winced. He finally looked at her. “But, Angela, there’s been an accident! That baby is bad-

ly hurt! And what about the other people in the car?” George looked away from his wife again and at the grisly scene in front of him. There were two trucks in the ditch beside the highway. The larger one seemed only slightly damaged, its nose into the hillside as if it were a giant horse rummaging for fodder. The smaller one, a Toyota, had jet-black sides, singed and sooty. It had caught fire and burned brightly for a few minutes before the snow put out the flames. The most horrifying sight, however, was the small passenger car, a Honda. It had been caught between the two trucks, accordioned to about a 49

third ofits original size. It sat in the middle of the road, looking like a Mad Max advertisement.

There were signs of humans everywhere, gloves on the road, a small tam o’shanter in the ditch, the heels ofa pair of black boots sticking out of a snowdrift. But it was the blood that caught the eye, intrusive in its sheer quantity. There was blood everywhere, on the trucks, on the snow, topping drifts like an obscene snow-cone. Pamela Stevens was sitting by the side of the car on the ice-covered asphalt. She was bleeding from a head wound, but it was hard to tell where her blood stopped and the blood of her baby began. For in Pamela’s arms was cradled a small child. The child’s hair was completely matted with blood, al-

ready turning dark and congealing. The child lay very still, moving only when jostled by the mother. Blood was spurting from her mouth and nose, and she was making soft gurgling noises that could somehow be heard even above the highway noise. George took all this scene in with one fascinated stare, then turned back to his wife. “Angela, they’re hurt. Let’s take at least the baby and go to the hospital.” “George, you forget I’m a nurse. I have seen hundreds of these cases before. I know that the paramedics will be here soon. Let them handle it. Besides, it’s cold outside and I'm

sick. You don’t want me to get even worse by your opening up

the door and letting the draft in, do you?” Angela put her hand on her chest and gave a ladylike cough. George gave his wife a long stare, then shrugged. The screams of the mother, “Someone help me! Help me! My baby is dying!” rang in his ears, but they were soon replaced by Angela’s chattering about the horrible price of fresh tomatoes at this time of the year. I heard all this story about two weeks later. The law offices of Nicholas Wade, which had me on retainer, asked

51

me to investigate the case. I remember very clearly the day I got the call. “Hello, this is Paula Bolin. May I help you?” “I can’t believe it; it doesn’t make sense; no one is that

cruel and unfeeling. They ought to be shot, skinned, and then fried in oil.” I sat there looking at the telephone, trying to place the voice. It was familiar enough that I knew I wasn’t getting a crank call from some galloping gourmet, but I couldn’t quite put a name to the voice. “You could be right.” Good old H. L. Mencken’s all-purpose answer comes through again. I’m fond of saying this when stalling for time. It encourages the person to go on, strokes his or her ego slightly, and gives me a chance to recover my thoughts. It came through for me again now. The disembodied voice continued, “They just sat there and let that baby die.” Now that was enough to get my attention. Monday morning complaints about deep-fry cuisine didn’t stimulate my professional senses, but mournful statements about dead babies certainly did. “What? Who let a baby die? What did the baby die of? When did this happen?” I was ready to go on with more questions, when suddenly it hit me whose voice I was listening to. It belonged to Bobbye Story. Bobbye is a tall, auburn haired beauty who could double for Elizabeth Montgomery if only she had the power to wiggle her nose and make things happen. Instead, she has her own kind of power. She utilizes her beauty, her brains, and her ineredibly likable personality to

affect a following of friends from every walk of life. Everyone loves Bobbye and I have never known Bobbye Story to dislike anyone at all. Bobbye and I go way back. We had known each other for nearly two decades. She was the personal secretary for 52

!

.

Nicholas Wade, chief attorney for one of the largest law firms in Oklahoma.

(We met in the sixties, thanks to our respective

sons, John and Harold, Jr.) It seems Harold broke John’s | plastic gun, which caused John to take action. He went to their home, where he confronted Bobbye with the broken toy. “Your son broke my gun, and I want two dollars for it,” he

demanded, wearing his very meanest look. The shock on Bobbye’s face was obvious as she stared at the broken gun. “That gun isn’t worth two dollars! I'll give you fifty cents for it,” said Bobbye. John sighed, then looked away as though contemplating her offer. His voice softened as he looked up at her, this time

with his very special “pitiful” face look. “This gun may not be very expensive to most people—” he began. Cocking his head to one side, a tear falling on his cheek, he continued—

“but it means a lot to me because this gun has sentimental value attached... . You see, my mother gave it to me.” Bobbye couldn’t contain her laugher (she later told me), but she decided the best thing to do was to invite John inside. Her friend Ron was visiting her, and he was able to make the necessary repairs, much to John’s dismay. It seemed he preferred to be paid the two dollars. Later on, Bobbye searched for me so she could meet the mother of the child who considered his toy gun held such special meaning. Bobbye and I became instant friends. She has worked conducting investigations for me in her spare time, but now she was working for the law offices. Since that time, I had been on retainer with the firm employing her. I worked about twenty cases per month for the firm. The cases ran the gamut from motor-vehicle accidents to rape and murder.

Bobbye,

the world’s most

laid-back woman,

never

got excited about any of their cases and never got emotionally involved with them. This one, obviously, was different. I pulled a yellow pad toward me and headed it, “Dead 53

Baby.” I certainly wouldn’t get this case confused with any other. “Bobbye, start at the beginning and go to the end. Who is the baby? How, when, and where did she die?”

Bobbye gave me the facts succinctly, as was her wont. It

seems that on December 26, on Highway 77just south of Oklahoma

City, Oklahoma,

a semi-trailer truck lost its brakes

and rammed into a small Honda passenger car. The Honda slid sideways, right into a Toyota pickup. The car was smashed between the two trucks. In the car at the time were the father,

Sean Michael Stevens, who sustained head injuries and was unconscious until the next day; the mother, Pamela Stevens,

who received only cuts and scrapes; and their two children. The older daughter, Shelly Kay, aged three, sustained perforated corneas when bits of the shattered windshield entered her eyes. But it was the youngest daughter, Crystal Diane, aged nineteen months, who was the most seriously injured. She had internal bleeding. “Her injuries were

severe,

Paula, but not life-threaten-

ing. If she had been taken to a hospital quickly and gotten medical care, she would have lived. As it was, the little girl strangled on her own blood.” “My gosh, Bobbye, that’s awful. You sound very involved in this case. Did you know the family?” Bobbye raised her voice. “No, I didn’t know them. I’m not involved with the family; that’s not what’s getting me upset. It’s the fact that the child might have been saved had she gotten medical attention quickly. Paula, there were witnesses there, people who could have helped but didn’t. They just didn’t get involved at all!” I was shocked. “Bobbye, you must be exaggerating. No person would let a child die just like that!” In my experience, the biggest problem at an accident site was keeping the

would-be Good Samaritans out of the hair of the official rescue crews. People were so eager to help that they actually got in the way, buzzing around. I had never heard of someone just driving away. | Bobbye

and

I talked

more

about

the accident,

and

I

heard the details that she knew. The law firm was representing the Stevens family, the accident victims who lost their lit-

tle girl so tragically. Bobbye wanted me to interview one George Evans, who had seen the crash, and any other witnesses I could find. She mentioned that George had already been contacted directly by Nicholas Wade, and he had refused to answer any questions on the advice of counsel. “So that’s why we need you, Paula. You have that gift of gab, that style about you that makes people willing to talk to you when they clam up around others. You’d have made a great psychologist, you know!” I laughed. “Thanks, and I guess that means I can charge you my shrink rates. How does $150 an hour sound to your” Bobbye chuckled. “It sounds fine to me, if you’re offering. If you’re asking, well, let’s just say that Nicholas would get another ulcer if Imentioned that figure to him.” “Oh well, it was worth a try. Okay, I have the name, George Evans. Ill contact him and get back to you with the results soon,” I replied. It was time to do some detective work. I checked court records,

police files, and

other

sources

to determine

that

George Evans had no criminal background. There was no record of his having declared bankruptcy or having other financial problems, nor had he sought help for any drug or alcohol overindulgence. George was gainfully employed as a junior high school math teacher in Anadarko, Oklahoma, about three hours away from my office. (As soon as I found out that fact, I’m afraid my antennae

55

all shot up. If Ihad to vote for the professional most likely to stray, the job classification with men who cheat the most on their spouses, I would choose teacher/coach. In my many years as an investigator, I have followed more teachers than the members of any other profession. I try not to prejudge someone, but I also recognize the value of my experience and instinct. And, as I was to discover later, my instincts were right yet again.) In short, the standard check showed up nothing

other

than

a normal,

hard-working,

middle-class

man...except for one thing. This normal man had sat in a cozy warm van and let a baby die through noninvolvement. I wanted to find out more about the man’s emotional and mental makeup than just the records would show. I talked with a few of his associates from school and three of his personal friends. They told me that George was a loving father to three minor daughters: Cindy, aged five; Tracey, aged 3; and Sandra, aged two. When I asked about Mrs.

Evans,

the

associates

and

friends had a reaction I found all too familiar; they became excruciatingly polite. I have learned over the years that when people don’t mention an individual, then take pains to be polite when I bring up the name, that individual is not at all popular. There’s a direct inverse relationship between the amount of polite disinterestedness shown and the level of affection for the person. I had a valuable clue here. It was apparent that Angela Evans, nee Pearson, was a woman who had alienated many of George’s companions. She would bear further examination. After I finished my homework on George, I pulled my associate

Kathy Peterson

into

the case

with

me,

drove

to

Anadarko, and caught George at work. Naturally, we did not call first. It is good basic investigative technique not to put the witnesses on notice, to catch them cold turkey. You get a much more honest and natural reaction that way. I informed 56

_

George that I was THE accident investigator and found him willing to answer my questions. Now, George probably thought that I was an investigator for the police department,

but what he assumes

is not my

concern. I covered my legal basis by very carefully not saying that I was affiliated with the police (to do so would be a crime). I simply let George draw his own conclusions. He didn’t ask for identification or seem to care too much who we were. He had a wandering eye, a leering glance that took in both Kathy (a gorgeous young woman with a beautiful body and face) and me (a former model).

After the interview with George, in which he mentioned his wife in nearly every sentence, it was obvious that we were dealing with a henpecked husband. Those are often most likely to cheat. It didn’t take George long to open up to Kathy and me and tell us all about an affair he had enjoyed with one of his female students. He said that Angela didn’t know anything about the affair (it’s amazing how quickly people will talk to female investigators and spill their guts over things they haven’t told even their own families) and that he felt overwhelmed with guilt. The self-torment was the glue that held George to his wife. I knew I needed to interview Angela; I also knew that George would want to tell her every detail of our meeting, making it easy for her to rehearse her answers to my ques|

tions.

Therefore,

I smiled

sweetly, leaned

forward

toward

George, and said softly but very firmly, “George, your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell your wife anything of your cheating—” George winced as he heard it expressed so baldly— “on one condition. You must promise not to tell Angela anything of this discussion of ours today. One word from you to her, and I will have to open up as well. Agreed?” George was no fool. He knew that I meant what I said, and he nodded. I was satisfied that George would remain quiLy

et. I felt a little (just a very little) bit guilty, but this was necessary. I didn’t want Angela practicing her answers before I got to her. “Doing background” is an art form. An investigator has to be careful to get important information, while at the same time not getting so much that she forms a complete picture of the individual. I find that if I know too much about the person, I fail to ask critical questions, assuming that I already know the answers. Therefore, while I talked to a few of An-

gela’s coworkers (she was a nurse) and one former neighbor, I didn’t go much beyond the basics. I made plans to interview Angela, and as soon as I spoke with her, I knew that George had not told her about our meeting. She immediately congratulated me on coming to her “first, since I am the one who knows most about this whole thing.” All in all, I had a pretty clear picture of what I would discover when I rang the doorbell at 1720 Melrose Drive that afternoon. It was much as I had anticipated. The furniture was overpriced particle board from a pretentious showroom. On the coffee table were pristine copies of books of Ansel Adams photography, obviously never opened, and a well-thumbed copy of the National Enquirer. Although I am usually good at sizing up my surroundings quickly, I had trouble forcing myself to look around. My eyes wanted to focus only on what was surely the most prominent point in the room, Angela Evans herself. She opened the door to me, shook my hand quickly, then waddled back to collapse on the couch. There she lay, sprawled out like a glandular Cleopatra. She grabbed a Kleenex, blew her nose, and waved the tissue in my direction. “If you hadn’t insisted that this interview be between just the two of us, I could have

had someone else answer the door.” She blew her nose again and adopted a pouting expression. “I’m sorry, but it’s hard for me to get up, with this cold.” 58

The first thing that flashed through my head was the bleeding Stevens child, saying grotesquely, “I’m sorry I can’t get up, but I’m dying.” I shook my head to remove the macabre thought and sat in a chair that no one offered. “Mrs. Evans,” I began, “I am here to talk about the accident that took the life of nineteen-month-old Crystal Diane Stevens.” Angela gulped, causing me to think that maybe, just maybe she was going to show some human feeling. I overestimated her. Instead, she began a story of her own. I was to learn, over the next excruciating seventy-five minutes, that Angela was concerned only with Angela. Any topic, no matter how straightforward, meant nothing until it was interpreted via The Gospel According to Angela. “Oh, Paula,”—I noticed right away that while I had been

careful to address this younger woman as Mrs. Evans, she immediately called me by my first name—“don’t say the word ‘accident’ around me. It reminds me of a ghastly event that took place when I was just a kid. You see—” she struggled to an upright position on the couch, which groaned in protest—“When I was only sixteen, my mother drove to the store one afternoon and saw an awful accident. She actually saw a man on a bicycle get struck by a car and have his leg broken. And that cruel and unfeeling woman rushed home and told me all about it, about the screams and the dented

bicycle. Well, I was a highly sensitive child. I had nightmares that night and for months afterwards. I had flashbacks about the accident for years. I don’t think I’m over it even today. I go to a psychologist, you know.” Angela gave me what was obviously meant to be a brave little smile. I forced myself to smile back. “My, that must have been horrible. I imagine poor Pamela Stevens, the mother of the dead baby, will also be experiencing nightmares for months and years to come.” I saw Angela frown. She didn’t enjoy hav59

ing someone else be the center of the conversation. Obviously, if I were going to get any information out of this Buddha, I was going to have to do it her way. I sighed mentally and began. “Mrs. Evans, you are a very important witness.” That did the job; Angela brightened up considerably. “I’d like you to tell me everything you can remember about the accident, every detail, no matter how small.” I hate saying that. People take you seriously and figure they have a license to talk your ear off. Unfortunately, the only way to get at the facts is to let the witness chatter away. It’s my job, not theirs, to separate the important from the unimportant matter. I sat back and waited for Angela to begin. “Well, I didn’t want to go out in the first place because I was sick to my stomach. My constitution is very delicate.” I had to look down and pretend to be searching my purse for something to hide my incredulous expression. This twotimes-my-size woman had a delicate constitution? Right. That’s like saying that King Kong had to watch his cholesterol level. Angela, blissfully unaware of my thoughts, continued. “I have to be extremely careful of what I eat and drink, and to stay out of drafts. And it was very cold outside that night, I re-

member. I should have been home in bed, with the covers around me. But no one here cares what I want. I had to go with George to pick up our kids from their grandparents. My mother said that I should come because she wanted to show me something. I thought that was ridiculous, but then no one ever cares what I think.” | I nodded sympathetically. It appeared that Angela thought she needed reinforcements to get through this tale of self-pity,

because

she

reached

behind

the

couch

and

pulled out a giant-sized bag of corn chips. I was fascinated. Did she have a cabinet built into the back of the couch? 60

|

Where did the chips come from? I was sorely tempted to get up and mosey around to the rear of the couch, but I reminded myself that I was there on business. I watched Angela tear

open the chips and begin eating. Not a word was said about offering me one. “Well,” she continued, spraying bits of corn chips in my direction as she chewed and talked at the same time, “I saw it

all. I saw everything. In fact, you’re lucky you’ve got me as a witness because I’m the only one who saw everything.” As much as I hated to give Angela any more self-importance, I had to agree that she was right. Other than the participants in the accident, Angela and George (it was apparent that Angela thought her husband didn’t count) were the only witnesses. The accident was on a very deserted stretch of road. “Tell me exactly what happened, please,” I urged. Angela looked at me. “You’re not going to tape this, are you? I don’t want any taping.” Now that surprised me a little bit. I had Angela pegged as someone

who wanted her words to be enshrined forever,

but her next comment clarified everything. “You see, if there is any money to be made telling my sto-

ry, Say to the newspapers or to some magazine, I want to be sure that I am the only person who can do so. I’m sure you understand.” I gave Angela a big smile and nodded. “Is it all right with you if I take notes?” I pulled out a yellow pad, confident that, unbeknownst to Angela, I had a tape recorder in my purse, whirring away. I almost never put it out in plain sight. People tend to be more hesitant and censor their words if they know they are being taped. A hidden recorder allows me to get everything and keep the witness comfortable. It is perfectly legal in Oklahoma to tape under these circumstances, contrary to what the public often assumes. Instances of when tap61

ing without knowledge is illegal are during interstate telephone calls. | am required by law to inform the party at the other end of the telephone that I am taping the call across state lines. It is also illegal for me to tape a conversation if I am not a party to the conversation. My voice must be on the tape recording. Any time one person is aware a tape is being made and participates in the conversation, it is perfectly le-

gal to record all participants in Oklahoma. Just to be sure, I felt in my purse. The machine was

purring away. I had turned it on before I entered the house. When it was time to turn the tape over or change tapes, I would simply excuse myself to go to the bathroom. If I was asked why I took my purse with me, I always said I needed to freshen up my lipstick. Most of the time, no one asked. “Well,” Angela continued, as I tried to count how many times she had said “well” in just the past ten minutes, “a huge truck rammed into the back of the little car, pushing it into a pickup truck. The car was smushed between the two trucks—” Angela put her hand on her heart and was clearly ready to begin telling me how she had palpitations from seeing such a thing, when I brutally interrupted. I needed to get at the facts. “Did the accident happen at an intersection?”

“Well, yes, actually. It happened at the intersection of Highway 9 and Highway 77. The Honda and the pickup were slowing to stop at the red light. The truck was going fifty miles an hour when it hit the car.” Leave it to Angela to give specifics. Nine out of ten witnesses would have said something like, “The truck was going.fast,” making me try to draw out an estimate more precisely. Not Angela. She had this down toa T. Before I could ask another question, Angela leaned forward and said very earnestly, “And when I saw the accident, do you know I had flashbacks of that awful accident of the bi62

cyclist! You know, the one I told you about. It was horrible!”

Call Ripley’s “Believe It or Not”; here was something truly amazing. Here we had a woman who had flashbacks of a scene she had never witnessed in the first place! I just nodded sympathetically and put my next question. “Which direction were the vehicles traveling?” “South.” Hurrah—an answer without “Well.” I smiled at Angela. “You have beautiful eyes. Do you wear glasses? Were you wearing them that day?” The corn chips were almost gone by now. Angela had beaten the record set by my son Anthony when he was a growing teenager of demolishing a bag in three minutes flat. She licked her lips. “No, I have perfect vision. Twenty-twenty. My eye doctor always says he wishes he had vision like mine.” I wondered why she was still visiting the eye doctor if her vision was always perfect each time. But I didn’t bother to ask. I was afraid she might answer in two thousand words or more. “I’m glad to hear that. You are going to be a very important witness after all.” It was only a partial lie. She was, after all, a very important witness. “Go on. Did you see the people in the Honda?” “Yeah, that woman got out and was bellowing like mad. Man, she should have been an opera singer. We had all the windows rolled up and the heater on because I had intestinal flu—” Angela remembered to give a cough here—“and we still couldn’t help but hear her. She was screeching away.” “Did you get out to help?” I asked. deaf.

Angela looked at me and raised her voice, as if I were “I said, I had the flu. Of course, I didn’t get out.” I

didn’t trust myself to say anything right then, and I think the silence finally got my disapproval through to Angela. She continued, “Besides, I’m a nurse. I knew there was nothing I

could do.” 63

“Do you mean you thought the baby was already dead?” “No, it means I thought I should stay in my van, way up high, and be able to see what was happening. If Ihad gotten out, I wouldn’t have been able to see anything.” Angela grinned as if she had just beaten me at “Jeopardy”: “Outsmarted you at last!” her smile seemed to say. “Did George get out?” I already knew the answer to this question from my previous interview with George, but I wanted to see how Angela handled it (and of course, she did not know I had already spoken with him). “No, of course not.” Angela was fond of sputtering “Of course not!” as if the person asking the questions were an idiot. “I don’t believe in getting involved in other people’s business. It was no concern of ours. We keep ourselves to ourselves.” I clenched my pen more tightly and wondered why on earth she insisted on staying at the scene if she didn’t want to get involved in other people’s business. I tried not to let anything I felt enter my voice. I kept reminding myself that I was a professional and that if Iwanted Angela to keep talking to me, I couldn’t let my disgust show on my face. I gota little bit of hostility out of my system by coughing and muttering at the same time, “You evil woman, you pig pet to the devil!” “Yeah”—it was obvious that Angela had decided to replace “well” with “yeah”—“the man, he was driving, I think,

but he was in the backseat of the car. It looked as if he had been thrown there. He was just lying still, not moving. I didn’t see any blood on him.” Angela sounded almost disappointed. “There was another kid too, about three. I have a three-year-old daughter of my own, so I know the age.” I looked up, amazed. Angela could sit there calmly and tell me she saw a three year old in an accident and that she had a three year old of her own and somehow never equate the two. Angela caught my eyes and nodded several times. 64

She reached behind the couch again (every detective instinct in my body was straining to see what was back there!) and pulled out a three-pound box of chocolates. “Would you like a chocolate?” She shoved the box under my nose. “No, thank you,” I replied, “but I would like to go over

this accident again.” “Well, this kid was wandering around on the highway. The mother ran over and sat her on the grass. Then she ran into the ditch and picked up something else. I couldn’t tell what it was at first; then I saw it was the baby. She didn’t move.

The stupid mother just sat down in the middle of the road, holding the baby. And it was dirty, all covered with blood. I couldn’t believe she was just holding it like that. But at least the baby was quiet, except for a little gurgling. I tell you, it was good not to hear more screaming. That three year old was bellowing away, and the mother was bellowing away. I don’t think my nerves could have taken it if the baby had been screaming too.” As usual, Angela could think only of herself. She squished a chocolate between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. “Did the mother see you there?” I asked. “Yeah,” Angela mumbled around the chocolate. “She came up to our van and screamed and screamed. ‘My baby is dying! My baby is dying!’ She was so dramatic you wouldn’t believe it.” “Did you take her to the hospital?” “How many times do I have to tell you? I was sick. I wasn’t going to get out of the van. And I didn’t want to get out on that road, especially. You should have seen it; it was a mess. There was blood and debris, metal pieces, glass, snow,

ice, all sorts of stuff all around. After all, I like things clean.” She looked around her spotless, sterile living room. “I guess it’s my nurse’s training.” I tried not to imagine what it would be like having An65

gela Evans for a nurse. Never had I witnessed someone with less compassion, less kindness. It was impossible to think of her doing things for others. I tried to keep my mind on the business at hand. But as Angela was smoothing the cushions

on her couch, I was seeing the body of nineteen-month-old Crystal Diane Stevens, laid out in the morgue, a tiny spot on a large steel table. I reminded myself that I was an investigator, doing ajob. “Please go on,” I encouraged her. “Well, let’s see.

I know

I didn’t want

to move

for one

thing. I just wanted to wait for the Highway Patrol to come, so that’s what I did.” She shifted her weight on the sofa, crushing the cushions nearly flat. She picked up three chocolates at once and pushed them into her mouth. I had no trouble believing that. It was obvious that Angela had stayed, not out of civic duty, but because she wanted to feel important, telling the story to police officers (or “hypo’s,” as we call the Highway Patrol in Oklahoma.) “Besides, I got all upset,” Angela added. I looked up. This was the first time I had heard that. “I started having flashbacks. Remember when I told you about the man on the bicycle with the broken leg?” It sounded as if the bicycle had a broken leg, but I let it pass. Angela then began retelling the same story she had told me a half hour ago, about her second-hand experience of an accident and how it left her traumatized for years. I smiled and tried to think of other things. When Angela finally ran down, I asked her what she did next. She was licking the chocolate off her fingers. “Well, I started to feel sick, as I said. George wanted to pull the seat

back and let me lie down, but I insisted that I could sit up so I could keep an eye on things. He pulled out some pillows and propped me up. We always keep pillows and blankets in the van, in case I am sick. I have a very delicate constitution. And 66

George got me some peanut butter to settle my stomach.” I felt my own stomach lurch as I thought of the crazed mother screaming for help for her dying baby and Angela reclining with her pillows and peanut butter. “So you stayed there? What did the woman do, the one who had come up to your van?” I asked. “Well, I think she was crazy. She banged on our van for a minute, then she ran away. She ran up and down the highway for about ten minutes, just yelling and screaming.” “Did anyone stop?” I asked. “No, no one. You know that road is pretty deserted, and there was no one else. Only us.” “And you stayed?” I had this awful picture of Angela eating her peanut butter while a baby bled to death ten feet from her. It reminded me of the southern women who picnicked at Bull Run as their husbands and fathers were being killed in the battle just a few hundred yards down the hill. Angela gave me a noble look. “Paula, it’s the law! You can’t leave the scene of an accident! Surely you know that, as an investigator. We stayed and followed the law.” I didn’t have the heart to say that only a person involved in an accident had to stay and then only if someone were injured. “You didn’t think of going to call the police to get help? Did anyone call?” I asked. “We didn’t call because we didn’t leave. And there was no one else there to make a call.” Of course I knew that. I made the comment to see whether it would dawn on Angela that she had been the child’s only chance. | “But I tell you, we should have left, because you won't

believe what happened next!” “The baby died?” I couldn’t help it; I had to say that. Angela was unperturbed. “No, not yet. No, that stupid 67

screaming woman came back. She was all full of blood and covered with mud and snow, and—you won't believe this, I swear—she actually crawled in the window of our van, baby and all! George had made the mistake of opening it to ask her what she wanted.” “No!” I shook my head at the audacity of it. Imagine, a bleeding woman with a dying baby, actually trying to get a ride to the hospital. Some people just have no manners. The chocolates were finished by now, and Angela was politely giving little burps. “Yes! I couldn’t believe it! She came back from wandering the highway when no one came by. And that was pretty stupid too, let me tell you. There she was, walking all around in the sleet and cold. She was dumb to be out on a night like that with two kids. Anyway, she came around to the van, to George’s side, and pushed at him, and

then crawled right into our van and sat down behind him. She did it so fast neither of us knew what was happening.” “And then what? Did you take her to the hospital then?” I don’t think I managed to keep the exasperation out of my voice this time. “Are you kidding? She was filthy, I tell you, with blood and mud. And she smelled awful, like a combination of blood and sewage. The sewage must have been from the ditch she got the baby out of. I ordered her out of our van,” said Angela. “Did she get out?” I asked. “No! Can you believe it! She actually just sat there, dripping all over our van. And it was a new van, too. It still had the paper license plate on the window! Some people have no consideration for other people’s property. It was like a nightmare. She sat there screaming and begging, and I told George he would have to put her out. I wasn’t going to take legal responsibility, either.” “The legal responsibility for what, Mrs. Evans?” 68

By now it was clear that Angela had labeled me as a moron, a private eye who simply didn’t know what was to be done, didn’t know

any laws. She gave an exasperated

sigh,

sending a waft of chocolate scent my way. “The law says that you cannot pick up an injured person.” What? This was a new one on me. I was tempted to trot out my favorite saying. A while back, an acquaintance told me that you don’t have to refrigerate turkey and dressing after it’s been cooked. When I protested, she claimed, “There’s

been a new finding.” Ever since that time, whenever I am confronted with someone who makes a moron look like an Einstein, I merely smile patiently and say, “Oh, has there been a new finding?” But before I could make the comment, Angela went on. “And besides, I was so sick that it made me worse looking at all that blood. My stomach was upset.” “The peanut butter didn’t help?” I asked. Angela looked pleased that I had listened so closely as to remember her telling me she ate peanut butter to settle her stomach. “Well, it helped a little, but not much.” I figured it was time to wrap this up. I asked a few more questions, very succinct ones designed to elicit straight facts, not feelings and emotions. Angela seemed amused by my Jack Webb style and played along, giving me one- and twoword answers. She thought the whole thing was a game. “So, Mrs. Evans, let me

conclude.

You stayed until the

police got there, which was what, about an hour? Then they told you to leave, and you did.” (I found out later that someone else had driven by and picked up the crying mother and the dying baby and drove them to the hospital. The same man notified police and paramedics on his car radio.) Angela reached behind the couch again, but she came up empty-handed. Someone must have forgotten to restock her cache. 69

“Yeah, and after all I did, the ‘hypos’ didn’t even thank

me. And there were TV crews that came later, so I missed my chance to be on TV. All I got from this was a sick stomach, a

bad headache, a filthy van—she even bled all over the Christmas presents we had from my parents in the van!” said Angela. “That was December

26, 1983, the day after Christmas,

wasn’t it?” I tried not to think of the presents in the Stevens’ household that Crystal would never play with, the toys that Shelly Kay would never again be able to see. “Yes,” Angela agreed, feeling once again behind the couch. “It was a living nightmare. I have already told my psychologist about it. I haven’t recovered from it yet.” I looked Angela in the eyes. “Neither did the woman’s baby. She died, you know.” “Yeah, and I know why. That mother has absolutely no idea how to act in a crisis. It’s just too bad she had to learn the hard way.” I stood up. “It’s time for me to leave. I want to thank you for being so gracious and taking the time to talk to me.” I thought that would bring a complacent snort, and it did. I went out to the car, taking deep breaths to calm myself. I felt sickened and disgusted by this evil woman. My hand went to my purse to check the tape. I played a few inches of it as I drove away. I wanted to make certain that I had the three important factors, my name, her name, and the date. I had all three, having worked in the date by saying something about how, “It’s hard to believe that this is May 25, 1984, and

that it’s been five months since that accident happened.” The tape seemed fine, and I yanked it out of the cassette player. The last thing I wanted to do was listen to it all over again. I spared a moment’s thought for Audrey, my poor secretary, who would have to listen to transcribe it.

Six months later, Bobbye Story called and asked me to 70

have lunch. I was swamped with work, but when she said she

wanted to tell me the outcome of the Stevens’ case, I put off my other work and met with her. The results were as sad as I had expected. | Shelly Kay Stevens, the child with the perforated corneas, went to live with her grandparents in Mesquite, Texas. She is enrolled in a school for the blind and will be starting classes this fall. Sean Michael Stevens, the father, feels a strong sense of guilt over not having been able to save his daughter, although he was unconscious as soon as his car was hit. His greatest guilt comes from knowing that he could have put off going to his in-laws until the next day, when the weather was better. He believes that his lack of judgment was the cause of his daughter’s death. He began drinking heavily after the accident, became an alcoholic, and lost his job. Shortly thereafter, Pamela left him and got a divorce. Pamela’s is perhaps the saddest story of all. For several months, she discussed suicide incessantly. She began to hallucinate, thinking her baby was alive, and rocking and playing with

her.

Finally,

Pamela

was

committed

to a mental

institution by her parents. The semi-trailer truck driver was found to be intoxicated and to be driving a truck that had defective brakes. His company settled out of court for a large sum of money, which will be used to care for Pamela and Shelly. One final note. Three days after Bobbye told me the results of the case, and of the settlement of the lawsuit, a brief

notice appeared in the paper. It merely rehashed the facts of the case and said that the parties had agreed to settle for an undisclosed sum. The day after that notice was printed, I got a strange call. “This is Paula Bolin. May I help youe” “Hi, Paula, this is Angela Evans. Remember vit

me, your

star witness,

from

the

accident?

You

interviewed

me.

Al-

though I never saw my name in any newspaper account or anything like that.” I involuntarily felt my stomach lurch. Why was this woman calling me? “Yes, Mrs. Evans. What may I do for you?” “Well, I saw the notice in the paper the other day, you know, about our case. I want to know how much money those people got out of it.” “I’m sorry. I don’t have any idea.” “Well, I just think it’s awful that I didn’t get any of it. I mean, after all, I was the only one who stayed there and saw it all. If it weren’t for me, no one would have known what re-

ally went on. Who do I call about all this? I think I should get some of that money, don’t you? I mean, I’ve seen people get money for their stories in the National Enquirer. And you know, the cost of living and all is so horrendous,”

said An-

gela.

I just sat there looking at the telephone. This woman had helped a baby die by her laziness and selfishness. Now she wanted to collect money for it? I couldn’t resist. I took a deep breath and spoke very clearly into the telephone. “Angela, since you ask, I’ll tell you exactly what I think. I think that the setthement the Stevenses received could not have been enough. I think you should pay them an additional sum of money for sitting there in your sterile little van while their baby daughter bled to death. I think you should pay the Stevenses every penny you make as a nurse for the rest of your life, and it still won’t be enough.” I took a deep breath and continued. “And I think that no one should let any money near you, ever. If you get any money, you would just use it to buy more junk food to stuff into your horrendous body, which would mean you would grow even bigger and need a larger couch. Then you’d need a larger house to accommodate the gargantuan couch. Then 72

there’s the crane you would need eventually to hoist your immense bulk off that couch...and let’s not forget hard hats for all the dear neighborhood children in case the crane slipped and some part of you went flying down on the innocent kids.” I was on a roll now. “And Ill leave you with a suggestion. Stop trying to make money out of someone else’s tragedy, a tragedy you helped bring about. Just sprawl there on your couch like a spider on its web and have a peanut butter sandwich to settle your stomach. While you’re at it, have one for me too, because you’re making me sick.” I slammed down the phone and stared at it for a few seconds. Then I went into the bathroom and washed my mouth out with soap.

73

a

CHAPTER 4

The Money Tree Would you recognize an Ulmus Ulmaceaewhen you saw it? Perhaps you know it better by its more common name, the great elm. In the offices of Paula Bolin Investigations, Incorporated, that tree will forever be known as the Money Tree... for in the course of one of our investigations, we learned that a good, healthy money tree can produce as much as $39,000 in just a few years. Talk about a cash crop! It all began when Delbert Carlisle walked into my office on a muggy August day. He was a young black man, in his early thirties, with a lean frame that appeared to be near utter exhaustion. He moved with the slow and painful movements of someone more than twice his age. As he ambled into my office, I found myself holding my breath, wondering whether he would make it to the chair before falling over. Delbert and I both sighed with relief when he settled down into the cushions. Delbert pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face. As he was putting it away, I had a chance to stare at him and get a good impression. He was a handsome man or could have been if his face hadn’t shown the strain he was under. He had short hair, big brown eyes, and, while his clothes were

old and shabby, they were neatly pressed and clean. Overall, my first impression of Delbert was that he was a hard-working, honest man who had fallen on hard times. I pulled my DD

yellow pad toward me and waited to hear what would come next. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Carlisle. Please tell me what I can do to help you.” “I haven’t seen my twin daughters for over two years now, and I miss them. I want you to help me find them.” Delbert sat forward on the seat, putting his arms on my desk. I couldn’t help glancing at his left hand and noticing he wore no wedding band. My first reaction was that this was yet another divorce case in which the mother had taken the children and fled. I have learned the hard way over the years that in matters of child custody, the best way to get the facts is to ask simple, direct questions. In other kinds of cases, I ask the client

simply to “Tell me all about it.” When I do that with a childcustody situation, I am likely to hear about the kid’s first steps, adorable gurgles, and potty training! While a skilled private investigator needs the facts, some things can be done without. I assumed my best Professional Stoneface (although I am somewhat of a clumsy person, I have an “air of dignity” that I can call upon when I need it) and began questioning my client. “How old are your children?” I asked. “They’re five years old now. I have twin daughters, Lisa and Teresa.” Delbert sounded like a typical proud father. I scratched a note on my pad. “Who is their mother and when did you last see her?” “Their mother is Ramona Wilson. I haven’t seen her in a while, but I talk to her a couple, times a week. She calls me

when she needs money for the girls.” “And when did you and Ramona get divorced?” As soon as I asked the question, I bit my tongue. Delbert hung his head and looked ashamed. My sons are always telling me not to intrude my middle-class morality into the cases. They 76

would have harangued me now if they had been here: “Mom, why do you automatically assume people are married? Not everyone has the same values, you know.” It was apparent that I had hit a sore spot with Delbert. “Uh, we weren’t married. You see, it’s this way.” Delbert leaned forward again and met my eyes. I had to admire him. The man was obviously ashamed of having daughters out of wedlock, but he was trying to do his best by them. “Ramona is Korean,

at least half-Korean.

Her mother

is Korean, and

her father is white. He was a serviceman during the war. Ramona wouldn't marry me because her father doesn’t like blacks.” He looked down and bit his lip; then he met my eyes again. “But I should have some rights as the father, right? I mean, just because I wasn’t legally married don’t mean I can’t see my girls, right?” I flipped my hair back over my shoulder with the back of my left hand and wished I had more good news to give this man. In my experience, an unmarried father had great difficulty getting custody or even visitation rights. But I determined to find the girls at least. Let the lawyers take care of matters after that. I put on a big smile to reassure Delbert. “I’m not a lawyer, Mr. Carlisle, just an investigator. Let’s take first things first. My job is to find your children, and I will do my best. I’m happy to say that in the nine years I have been working as an investigator, there has been only one man

I was

unable

to locate.” I frowned,

then

smiled

as I

thought of The Man Who left Behind the Fish in the Briefcase, or Cod on the Lam, as my son Kent put it.

Delbert obviously had something else on his mind. “Uh, there’s another thing. You see, I work two jobs to support my daughters. I’m an electrician with James Houser Electrical Company during the day and pump gas at night. I don’t have a lot of money to pay your fee. Are you very expensive?” I almost laughed at the naive way in which Delbert 77

phrased the question, but a look at his face told me he was serious. I rose, walked from behind my desk, and settled down

into the chair next to him. I wanted to make this nervous man feel more comfortable, and a desk between us was obvi-

ously disconcerting him. He seemed to relax as I sat down beside him, smiling. “Yes, to be honest, I am

expensive. There are some

in-

vestigators who charge less, but as I say, they know what they’re worth. I do a good job, and I ask a good fee. But we can come to terms. I am not going to ask you to pay the entire amount up front. Later on, we can draw up a second con-

tract, if necessary, in which you pay so much money every week. For now, we will use a contract that covers the retainer.

Our hourly fee will be taken from that. Don’t worry; we’ll find an amount you can afford. Right now, finding the girls is the important thing.” Delbert smiled for the first time since he had walked into my office. He reached into his pocket. I was sure he was going to pull out pictures of his daughters, but instead he

yanked out the handkerchief and wiped his face again. “Mr. Carlisle, Delbert, do you have any pictures of your daughters? I would also like a picture of Ramona.” “I don’t have any pictures. Ramona said that she would be having some developed and give them to me, but she just hasn’t gotten around to it yet. You see, my daughters have been sick. That’s another reason I want to see them. I keep giving Ramona money for the doctor, and she has me worried. I want to be with my little girls when they are hurting. Their daddy should be there, don’t you think?” I nodded. “I certainly do. You sound like a wonderful father.” I watched his face light up as he heard the compliment. “Tell me about your payments. Were they mandated by the court? How much do you pay and to whom?” Even though Delbert and Ramona had not been married, I was 78

aware that Ramona might have filed a paternity suit, seeking money from the children’s father. I had been involved with several of those cases during my career. Delbert didn’t meet my eyes. He fumbled with the clasp of his watch. “I pay $150 a week, every Friday, and I’ve never been late. I pay it to the court, but I used to pay it to her.” I was about ready to open my mouth and ask further about the court, but Delbert went on in a rush and I lost my train of thought. As it turned out, I would have saved us a lot of trouble, time, and money had I asked my question. “It’s hard working two jobs, but it’s worth it. You should see my daughters, Ms. Bolin; they are beautiful little girls.” Delbert went on to describe his daughters until I could almost see them myself, their little faces shining, white bows in their braided hair. By the time Delbert told me about how they both got their first tooth on the same day, I was well and truly hooked. I made up my mind to find the twins, not only for Delbert, but so that I could see them and give them a hug myself. There were a few more preliminaries to take care of, but we went through them quickly. Delbert promised to get all the information

he could about Ramona,

her last address,

her vehicle description, and so forth. He said he would get the information and telephone me in the next few days. We agreed on a retainer fee of five hundred dollars and payments of a hundred a week, (just a fraction of my usual fee, but all that this overworked man could afford) and Delbert

left. Iwas pleased to see that he seemed much more upright and energized when he left than when he had entered. One of the rewards of being an investigator is helping people, giv-ing them hope that their problems can be solved after all. As soon as Delbert left, Iwent back to my desk and made a list on my trusty yellow pad of my plan of attack. It read like this: 79

. Check phone directories. (When no Ramona Wilson was

found,

I called

several

other

Wilsons,

asking

whether they were related to Ramona and knew her whereabouts. The phone directory is always the first step. All P.I.’s learn this from experience, after the first time they drive a hundred miles to check out a lead, only to return to the office and find the person was listed in the telephone book all along.) . Check the City Directory. (The City Directory lists vacant residences as well as those currently occupied.) Once I had an address that Ramona had lived in previously, I looked up the neighbors on either side of her and telephoned them. Unfortunately, they did not know Ramona’s current location. . Call the Motor Vehicle Registration Branch of the Department of Public Safety. (There was no record of a vehicle registered to a Ramona Wilson.)

. Check the Driver’s License Division of the Department of Public Safety. (There was no record of a driver’s license issued to Ramona Wilson.)

. Check the tag agencies. (In Oklahoma, license plates are called “tags.” Tag agencies are individually owned and operated, although there is a state-operated one, also, and prices vary on tag costs. Tag agencies will check on an individual for a fee of fifty dollars. There was no tag issued to Ramona Wilson.) ». Call “my cop.” (Like most private investigators, I “own” a cop. That is, I have a good personal and professional relationship with a police officer who does unofficial favors for me for a fee. No private investigator could hope to stay in business long without some “in” with the police department and its wonderful computers. My contact checked for me, but we found no record of a Ramona Wilson. I couldn’t even get 80

her date of birth or Social Security number, two items

of information that would have helped my search.) Hour after hour, source after source, the checking led to a dead end. I contacted all the hospitals in Tulsa and the neighboring area and found no one would give birth information without the written permission of the father. A quick check with Delbert showed that Ramona had told him she had listed the father as “unknown” on the birth certificates so that her father would not know of her affair with a black man. Therefore, even with Delbert’s permission, the hospitals would not release information. I checked the marriage records in Tulsa, thinking that Ramona might have married since leaving Delbert. There was no record of a marriage, either. Because there are seventy-seven counties in Oklahoma, it would have been much too expensive to examine each and every one of them (especial-

ly if we found nothing). Then too she could have been married in another state altogether. I sighed as I thought of the expenses, and I made yet another note. I kept very meticulous, detailed records of all my work, even when it leads to a dead end. Let me change that— I keep records of all my work especially when it leads to a dead end. Naturally, a client likes to know how his or her money is being spent. There is nothing more likely to ensure a lack of payment than handing a client a blank piece of paper and saying, “Sorry, we couldn’t find anything.” My secretary, Audrey, types up all my notes, makes lists of the leads I have followed along with the results, and a copy is given to the client. Even when there are no results to the client’s liking, he is as- sured that we have made a good effort and done everything possible to earn our fee. After three days of dozens of telephone calls and hours of shuffling through every directory available, we still had no 81

idea where Ramona Wilson was. As I told Audrey, “The Witness Protection

Program

could use this woman;

I’ve never

seen anyone so good at disappearing entirely.” I hated to give Delbert the bad news, but I knew he was waiting. Audrey told me he called three times a day, just to find out the latest. I told her to tell Delbert to come in at nine o’clock the next morning for a meeting. Delbert was there at eight-thirty, looking like a puppy waiting for a treat. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that all the news was bad. “Did you find them? Did you find my babies?” Delbert wasn’t even through the door before he asked me. “Not yet—” I began, and saw his face fall. “Ramona is not listed in any of our sources. But we did come up with an idea.” I learned long ago that whenever you tell a client you have nothing for him, you follow that news immediately with a new plan. Investigators know that ideas and plans are no substitute for solid facts, but clients are so eager to take anything they can get. Delbert looked at me now, waiting for pearls of wisdom to fall from my lips. “The next time Ramona calls you, try to get her to meet you. We will follow her—” Delbert interrupted me. “Oh, she called last night! I have good news! She said that she would let me visit my daughters if Ibought her a wedding ring!” I was confused. “What? You mean she is finally willing to marry you after all? What about her father?” “No.” Delbert shook his head and looked sad for an instant. “Ramona still won’t marry me, but she will let me see my daughters. She told me she wants two rings, an engagement and a wedding ring. She even told me the store where I can buy them. She says that they will let me make payments on time. The rings are usually a thousand dollars, but she says that they will let me have them for only eight hundred.” 82

Now for the first time I wondered what kind of woman Ramona was. She was using her children to blackmail diamonds out of a poor working man who already was killing himself at two jobs. However, I tried not to make judgments. Delbert looked so happy that I played along. “That is good news! When you deliver the rings, we will follow you and find out where Ramona lives. Where exactly are you going to meet, and when?” I asked. Two days later, another investigator, Douglas Case, and I sat out in the car parked outside of a small coffee shop and watched Delbert enter. He had called my office that afternoon to say that Ramona wouldn’t be showing up herself to collect the rings, but would be sending a friend. It seemed she telephoned him that afternoon to say that she was ill, but that her girlfriend would take her place. Of course, that meant that the children would not be there, either. Delbert

was disappointed, but Ramona reassured him that she just had the flu and as soon as she felt better, she would let Del-

bert visit the children. About ten minutes after Delbert entered the coffee shop, a blue Pontiac pulled up. Inside it was a Korean-looking young woman. She locked her car door, walked into the shop, and sat down across from our client in a booth. They chatted a few minutes. Then the woman took the package Delbert handed her and went back out to her car. I looked at my watch. In just nine minutes, Delbert had given away an eight-hundred-dollar set of rings that he would probably be paying for over the next several years. I checked my notes as the young woman was buckling her seat belt. This obviously was Tina Kyle, a former class‘mate of Ramona’s and her best friend. Delbert had told us that he had never met her, but that he had often heard Ra-

mona talk about her. Douglas, my redheaded comrade, put his car into gear 83

and we pulled out behind the Pontiac and followed the woman to a large Safeway food store, where she pulled in and parked. Once inside the store, she pulled outa grocery basket and began to shop. Douglas reminded me that he was due to testify in a rape trial later that day. He got out of the driver’s side and closed the door, leaning on the side of the car. “What do you want me to do? She may be in the store for an hour or longer. Should I call Paula Pounders, the voluptuous blonde bombshell, to drive over here and replace me?”

He began digging in his pocket and brought out some change. I looked out the passenger side of the car window, searching for Tina. She was still inside the store. “Yes, you'd better call Paula now. Tell her that you will take her car back to the office for her and that she can ride with me.” I was getting worried we wouldn’t have time to switch investigators. I didn’t need to worry. (I found out later.)

Douglas walked hurriedly over to the pay phone outside the food store and dropped the money into the slot. I turned around to check if he had left any notes or his briefcase in the back floorboard. I didn’t see anything. When I looked back toward the phone booth, Douglas was just hanging up the telephone. “She was there and she said she will be here within the next few minutes.” Douglas smiled and got back inside the car. “I hope she gets here before Tina comes out of the store.” I flipped my hair back over my shoulder with the back of my hand. “She drives pretty fast. I expect that she will be here right away.” We both began staring at the store and didn’t say anything for several minutes. Paula drove up just in time. We saw Tina Kyle coming out of the store. She got back inside the Pontiac, then got out

again. She had picked up the package and put it inside the trunk of the car where she placed all of the groceries she’d 84

purchased. That seemed strange, but the whole case was strange we later learned. Our plan was to follow Tina to Ramona, and then follow Ramona. Things did not work out as planned. My associate, Paula Pounders (we call ourselves Paula #1 and Paula #2, with each

of us firmly convinced she is #1, except once when we agreed the other could be #1. The reason was that we were kidnapped while working a custody case together. Each hoped the kidnapper considered the other to be #1 and would allow #2 to escape. Fortunately, we both later escaped unscathed. Escaping first, I decided to become #1 again) and I followed Tina

to 5780

Meridian

Circle, where

she entered

a small

house. We settled down in the car, waiting for Ramona to pull up, or, if she were already in the house, to leave. We waited...and waited... and waited. Surveillance

is quite an art. It requires two people, so

that one is always keeping an eye on the door (a situation that occasionally leads to mirages, by the way). Any investigator who has kept surveillance can tell tales of seeing crowds of people enter and leave residences under observation. If you stare at a door long enough, your mind begins to play tricks on you. My #1 son, Anthony, told me that once when he looked at a door so long he suddenly saw Gary Cooper come out arm in arm with Charo! He swore right then and there not to eat so much junk food; the sugar rush was doing strange things to his mind. Paula and I had the car stocked with food and that most indispensable tool for surveillance,

a “Winky Tink Tank,” as

we call it. This is a small, portable toilet that fits on the back floorboard. The average “civilian” doesn’t think about things ‘like bathroom needs, but believe me, they are uppermost in

any PI’s mind—you drink a lot of coffee, tea, or soda when you are keeping observation! One of my most embarrassing moments occurred when 85

I forgot my invaluable Winky Tink Tank. The situation became desperate enough that I got out of the car and, under cover of darkness, walked to the side of a house to relieve myself. Iwanted to make sure that no one saw me, including the male investigator who remained in the car. Just as I was past the point of no return, the owner of the house decided to switch on the porch light. There I was in all my glory, unable to stop in midstream. It was embarrassing at the time, but I still have to laugh when I think of the expression on that woman’s face as she let out the cat and saw a well-dressed brunette, wearing high heels and a tailored suit, squatting amongst the begonias! At 7:20 the next morning,

an adult male, white, about

twenty-eight, came out of the house, entered the Pontiac, and

drove

away.

We

followed

him,

assuming

it was

Tina’s

American husband, and that he would be taking the rings to Ramona. Instead, the man went to B—] Body Shop and prepared to begin his day’s work. At that stage, we gave up the surveillance. Once back at the office, we ran a tag check and found out that our hunch was right, the car did belong to Howard and Tina Kyle. Since these two were our only link to Ramona, we decided to investigate them further.

We interviewed neighbors and coworkers and found that the Kyles had no children, and that no young woman with children, especially twins, ever visited them. It struck me

as odd that Ramona’s “best friend” would never have Ramona and the children over. To make matters more suspicious, even though Howard was a body-shop worker earning very little money and Tina was a grocery clerk earning even less, the couple had bought a sixteen-foot fiberglass ski boat and were making sizable payments on a cabin at Grand Lake. Where was their money coming from? I called Delbert back into the office the next morning.

86

“Delbert, I want you to take a look at this.” I handed him several typewritten sheets. He took them gingerly, as if they were going to explode in his hand. They were covered with numbers. “Ms. Bolin, if this is your bill, Iwant you to know I will pay every penny—”

I interrupted him. “No, this is not my bill. Iam sure you will pay that when you have a chance. You are a very conscientious young man, perhaps too much so. What you are holding is something I made up last night during my long surveillance outside of Tina Kyle’s house. It is a list of all the money you have sent to Ramona over the past five years.” (I used what we call an electronic notebook while on surveillance. It was a recorder that I talk into and from which Audrey can transcribe my notes. I usually use an electronic notebook, as it is much too dark to be able to write regular notes.)

Since Delbert was just staring at the list, not seeming to take it in, I grabbed it back from him and began reading. “Weekly payments of $150 each for five years, $39,000. Doc-

tor’s bills of as much as $150 for one visit, $4,000—”

Delbert interrupted me. “I know that’s high for a visit, but Ramona told me the doctor has to charge double because they’re twins; there are two of them.” I ignored him and kept on reading aloud. “Christmas toys for five years, $1,000. Miscellaneous clothing and other expenses, $4,000. Grand total, $48,000.” I put the list down.

‘Delbert, $48,000 over five years! You are in debt to everyone, from your credit union to me. That’s nearly $10,000 a year, about half of everything you earn! This has become ridiculous. You have to have a showdown with Ramona. Refuse to pay her another cent until she allows you to visit the children again. How long did you say it’s been since you saw them?”

87

Delbert’s head was hung so low that he was talking to the floor. “Ms. Bolin, I never seen my daughters.” I almost fell off my chair. “What! You have never seen them? Never? How do you know you even have daughters? How long has it been since you saw Ramona?” Delbert was muttering. “Well, I saw her about five or six years ago, I guess. She left me; then she called a year later to say that she had had my babies. She told me then that that was why she broke up with me. She was pregnant and afraid of what her father would do to her if he found out. Ramona is a good woman, Ms. Bolin. She wouldn’t do anything to hurt men This was too much. I had heard of trusting souls, but this man would make a Frank Capra film look cynical. I was furious, first at myself for not exposing this sham earlier, second at Delbert for lying to me all this ttme (and me with my pride in being able to judge a man’s character from his face—I had been convinced that Delbert had the most honest eyes I had ever seen!) ,and third at Ramona, for hurting a kind man this

way. It was time to get at the entire truth. I stood up and walked over to in front of Delbert. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. I raised my voice. “Delbert, I want the truth now. No more wasting my time and your money. Did the courts order you to pay child support to Ramona? Have you been paying to the court?”

Delbert looked up at me. “No, I lied about that. There was no court. I have been paying Ramona myself.” “But you said you haven’t seen Ramona in years. Have you been mailing her a check?” kasked. “No, I have been giving cash. Ramona wants only cash. You see, she don’t want her father to know about the money.” Delbert kept bringing the father into the discussion. It was obvious that Ramona had made the most of him.

88

“Delbert, very slowly now, tell me how you give Ramona

the money?” I asked. Delbert took a deep breath. “I take the cash, put it inside a brown paper sack, and drop it under the elm tree at Thirtythird and Western. I always leave it there right at seven o’clock Friday night, and Ramona picks it up after I’m gone.” Seeing my look of shock, he hurried on. “It’s okay, really. There’s never anyone there, and the money has never been stolen or anything.” I sat down and kept shaking my head. I hardly heard Delbert, who was babbling something about how he didn’t care about the money, only about his kids, and how Ramona needed the money because she couldn’t work. The picture was only too clear now. It was just too convenient that Ramona never showed the children to their supposed father, nor showed herself. It was apparent there were no children. Suddenly a thought struck me. “Delbert!” I shouted, and he jumped. “Is there really a Ramona?” I had an awful suspicion that perhaps my client had been making up the entire thing. Then I saw the look on Delbert’s face and got a grip on myself. Of course there had been a Ramona. Someone was calling, someone was picking up the money...and someone, more specifically Tina Kyle, had gotten those rings. I lowered my voice. “I’m sorry for shouting. It’s just that I hate to see you hurt like this. Delbert, I am

sorry, but I think Ramona

has

been cheating you. I want to prove this once and for all. The next time you leave the money under the elm tree, I am going to be there. I will follow whoever picks up the money, and we will finally get some answers.” Delbert protested a bit, but he eventually gave in. I think he was worn down and just wanted to get finished with the whole affair.

89

The next day was Friday. Delbert took the money to the tree and dropped it off. Paula Pounders and I were sitting a few hundred yards away in my car, watching with our binoculars. Douglas Case was on a park bench

to the east, and my

- son Anthony was strolling along the street. I was absolutely determined we were not going to lose this person. A half hour after Delbert left, up pulled a familiar Pontiac. Out of it stepped Howard Kyle. He walked briskly to the elm tree, grabbed the paper sack, and went back to his car. Paula and I followed him, assuming he would lead us to Ramona. He went directly home, and that is where he stayed. For the second time in only a week, I spent the night in my car outside the Kyle house. The next morning Howard Kyle worked in the yard, while Tina stayed in the house. Paula #2 and I stayed on surveillance through the weekend and onto Monday morning when Howard Kyle went to work again. Things had to come to a head. It was tme to flush out the mysterious Ramona. Paula #2 stayed in the car, while I created ideas in my head and went to the front door. I rang the bell and when Tina answered the door, I pretended to be Ramona’s friend in search of her. “So you see,” I said as I was sipping a cup of hot chocolate Tina had offered me, “I lost touch with her. My daughter is getting married and wants Ramona to come to the wedding. In fact, if we can find her in time, she can be a bridesmaid.” Tina beamed. The romantic story gets them every time. “But how did you know to come to me?” “I thought you two were best friends. Ramona used to talk about you all the time. I remembered your name, because I just ‘love’ the name Tina, looked you up in the phone book, and well, here I am!” We both laughed. Then she thanked me. “Well,

I do know Ramona

90

moved

back with her father.

The last address I have for her is there. Here, let me geta piece

of paper and write it down for you.” Tina could not be nicer. I left there after some more small talk and headed over to the address to meet Bobby Joe Wilson. When I arrived, Mr. Wilson informed me that Ramona had married nearly four years ago and was living with her husband and small daughter in Denver. It didn’t take me long to decide to fly out there. I wanted to confront the woman and see whether she had in fact been bilking her ex-lover. A few days later, I was sitting across from a very nice young lady, exactly the opposite of the dragon lady I had pictured in my mind. I asked Ramona about Delbert and got a huge smile. “He was a very nice man. I used to date him, a long time ago. I stopped seeing him, though. Do you know him? How is he?” I pride myself on being a pretty good judge of character (despite the fact that Delbert’s big, brown eyes had completely taken me in). At that moment, I would have bet anything that Ramona was not lying. She seemed genuinely nostalgic about a former boyfriend and curious as to his status. I deliberately avoided answering her questions and asked one of my own. “Have you been in touch with Tina Kyle lately?” At that name, Ramona blushed. This was the first sign of guilt I had seen, and I wondered about it. It didn’t take long to ferret out the facts. It seems that one reason Ramona had stopped seeing Delbert was that Tina had frightened her. “She kept asking me, what would I do if Igot pregnant? She knew that my father didn’t like my seeing a black man. I hadn’t even thought about it, but she got me so scared thatI stopped seeing Delbert. He was a sweet man, though.” That explained it. The blush was over the thought of sex, not over guilt at a crime. I decided to explain the entire ol

situation to Ramona. It wasn’t easy. She didn’t want to believe me at first. She kept repeating that Tina had been her best friend and that she would never ever do anything like that. It took me almost two hours to convince her. When Ramona finally believed me, she was horrified. “Poor Delbert! He has been working two jobs and being hurt so badly! He must hate me!” I shook my head. “It was because he loved you and loved what he thought were his children that he worked so hard. Ramona, here’s what we can do. Obviously, Delbert has been

talking to Tina all these years, thinking she was you. Why don’t you call him and tell him the truth? It might come better from you than from me.” It wasn’t that I was a coward: I had broken bad news before. But I wanted Delbert to have the comfort at least of knowing that Ramona was well and that she still cared enough about him to be upset at the treatment he had received. Besides, I had no stomach to spend another two hours trying to convince Delbert of this strange situation. Convincing Ramona had been hard enough. Ramona picked up the phone and called Delbert. She had a very difficult time convincing him that she was herself, until she talked about some intimate details that only she would know. She broke the truth to him and comforted him. Naturally, he was devastated, at being a fool-and more so at not having any daughters. He had loved them for so long that they were real. Hearing that they didn’t exist was tantamount to hearing that they had been killed. I stayed just long enough to be sure that Delbert believed Ramona,

then eased out. On my flight home, I spent

my time listing the criminal charges I would encourage Delbert to insist the district attorney file against the Kyles. I also began thinking about how much money Delbert had coming to him.

It was four days later when Delbert came into the office. His eyes were red, as if he had been crying a long time. He thanked me for helping him and said he was glad to know the truth finally. He refused to request any criminal charges be brought against the Kyles and vehemently refused to see them himself. He wanted to forget the whole affair, he said. He did, however, allow us to confront them with our infor-

mation. I relished that afternoon. This time Paula #2 and I walked into the Kyles’ home and showed them our investigative identification cards, telling them we had been investigating them for a long time, which to them could have been years and years. They were so guilt-ridden that the look of surprise on their faces appeared to be one of, “They know absolutely every minute detail of our lives.” We showed them the proof we had of their fraud, being careful not to do anything that could be construed as threatening them or trying to extort money from them. I informed them that we were going to suggest to our client that he take our evidence to the district attorney’s office and request criminal charges be brought against them. As we anticipated, the Kyles immediately tried to talk us out of doing so, offering to repay the money they had bilked out of Delbert. The Kyles had spent much of the cash, but they gave back the rings and agreed to sign over title to the boat and the lake cabin to Delbert. (Later he was able to sell those things and

recoup some of the money.) We left two very frightened and chastised people behind. As for Delbert, there was a happy ending. While he was working his second job at the gas station, he had met a young woman customer who made a point of coming in on his shift. He now felt free to ask her on a date. It was less than a year later when we received an invitation to his wedding. Delbert married Elaine and had a son, whom

he cherishes. He also

showed an unexpected sense of humor about the whole tra93

vail, now that it was over. Delbert walked into our office car-

rying his son one afternoon. We all made a big fuss over the baby, cooing and chirping at him as Delbert beamed. I made a face at the adorable child and then asked Delbert, “What did you name your son, Delbert?”

Delbert began laughing so hard he could hardly catch his breath. I thought he might have misunderstood my question, so I asked it again. “What did you name your son, Delbert?” Finally, he straightened up, twinkled, and said, “Oh, I

thought I would name him Elm—er...after my favorite tree!” Sometimes, stories do have happy endings.

94

CHAPTER

5

Sex and Drugs and a Six-Year-Old “PUGH! They didn’t tell me about this in WANT TO BE A PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR? HELPFUL TIPS: Step 1 through Step 3!” Sidney Armstrong pinched his nose with his fingers and rolled his eyes. With his free hand, he grabbed his throat and made retching motions. “Shhhh!” I warned my colleague. “All we need now is for them to hear you! Hold it down, will you?” Sidney made a noise that sounded like a cross between a cough and a giggle. He leaned closer to me and whispered, “Hold it down? With this stench, I’m lucky I can hold anything down. You’re about to see what I ate for breakfast, Paula!” I gave my investigator a dirty look. “No need to be vulgar, Sidney.” He shrugged. “When in Rome...’ I dug around in my purse, checking that the tape recorder I had in there was turned on. Sidney watched me for a moment, then leaned over to me again. “Don’t tell me, you’re looking for a clothespin for your nose. Dibs on any spares!” _ Despite not wanting to encourage Sidney, I had to laugh. He was right. No one entering the field of private investigation ever hears about cases like this one. I’ve yet to see an advertisement for an investigations manual that promises >

95

| “Fun and excitement! Good money! And plenty of filth and | stench!” I looked around. This place had to go down as the most | disgusting I had ever been in. 1238 West 27th Street was a ¢ one-bedroom home, although there didn’t appear to be a ‘ bed and the place obviously wasn’t much of a home. From the outside, it looked like a typical lower-class house, no better or worse than its neighbors. There was a rusting carcass that appeared once to have been a 1970 Pontiac (may it rest in peace!) deteriorating in the driveway. The “driveway” was a swath of dirt and grass, little better than some of the hiking trails I had gone on in the mountains. The only way we could distinguish the driveway from the lawn was that the driveway had more oil and grease spots on it. Of course, the lawn had more litter. The Early McDonald’s Litter decor carried over into the house. There were discarded bags, pieces of hamburgers, and Coke cups everywhere. When we first walked in, I saw what looked like a slice of pickle clinging to the wall, as if someone had lifted it off ahamburger and flung it to the side of the room, only to have it stick to the wall. Smart pickle; it probably didn’t want to wade through the debris on the floor anymore than I did. The food contributed to the generally decaying stench of the house. I was intrigued by the sheer variety of the scents. Even as I was agreeing with Sidney that a clothespin for the nose would be bliss, a part of me was trying to identify the many smells. First, there was the tang of week-old mustard and meat, probably from the McDonald’s bags liberally scattered about. But the most overwhelming smell was gas. Obviously, there was a leak somewhere, causing a dangerous living condition for everyone, especially for a small child. Gas has a sickly sweet smell that is supposed to encourage the homeowners to fix the leak. The owners of this house proba97

bly thought it was the finest smell in their arsenal. ..and with justification. Sidney and I appeared to be the only animals present who didn’t enjoy the ambiance. The cockroaches, ants, and

little squishy gray things that ran unrestrained around the house were obviously having the time of their lives. The pile of garbage—let me change that to The Official Pile of Garbage, half in and half out of a container in the corner—

was teeming with insects. And so were the few pieces of furniture scattered about. When I

first walked

in, I headed

for

the

couch

to

sit

down... until I saw that what I thought was a pattern in the material of the couch was moving. I chose to stand and just observe. I saw a tiny end table, one lamp with a frayed cord, and a telephone with a slick, slimy substance all over the receiver. With a typical investigator’s mind, I began to muse on what that substance could possibly be. “Sidney,” I hissed at my companion. “Come over here a minute, please.” Sidney was only a few feet away from me, but he made a huge production of coming to me. First, he lifted his feet to get over a heap of dirty laundry that was smack dab in the middle of what appeared to be the living room. Then he apologized to a fuzzy ball that was either a cat or the remains of last month’s dinner. He was in the middle of skirting a highly incongruous item—a brand new man’s shirt, still in its

pristine cellophane package, sporting the price tag from a very upscale men’s clothiers—when I lost my patience and grabbed him.

“We need to come back here with cameras, if possible.” Sidney nodded. “Yes, and those little envelopes that coroners on television always use to scrape samples of undefined substances, to be analyzed later in the lab.” I shuddered and pointed to the scum on the telephone. 98

“Ugh. I don’t want to know what this stuff is, to tell you the

truth.” That conversation came up later as several of us were sitting in my office, listening to the tapes. Sidney and I had decided

to call in investigators Kent Bolin, Donna

Bingham,

Douglas Case, and Kathy Peterson to join us. We filled them in on what had happened so far. “So let me just summarize.” That was Donna, one of the best PI’s I’ve ever had, wanting to get everything straight as usual. Her habit of being fully prepared and briefed is one of the reasons she is such a good detective. In our office, Donna is nicknamed Muffin, because of her short and petite stature. (We have managed to pass Donna off as a child on more than one case. There was that memorable time in Tulsa when

Donna

donned

Mouseketeers

ears

and... well,

that’s another story. You'd better believe that we’ll never let Donna forget it, however! Those ears are now enshrined in a

glass in our office, right above the softball trophy our office team somehow managed to win one year and the TV tray that probably saved my life when I sent it crashing down on the

head of a man who was lunging at me with a knife.) “Randy Mansfield, aged twenty-six, is our client. He is suing for custody of his five-year-old daughter Julie. Julie was born to Randy’s ex-wife, Sue Mansfield. She and Julie are living with Sue’s boyfriend, Danny Thompkins.” Sidney broke in. “Living? More likely, surviving. I think Sue is so skinny from the aerobics she has to do just to avoid

the bugs in her living room. And I don’t even want to imagine what her bathroom and bedroom are like.” Donna glared at Sidney. She looks exactly like Linda Blair did in The Exorcist. We are always expecting to see her head spinning around, or to hear a deep voice coming from her mouth. For now, she settled herself with drawing her 105

pounds up in a dignified huff. “Let me continue.” 99

Sidney and Kent exchanged glances. “Let me continue” was a joke in our office. Donna had a habit of saying it even when she was just beginning a conversation. “We believe that Danny is a small-time drug dealer. Neither Sue nor Danny has ajob, as far as we can tell.” It was Douglas’s turn to break in. “I’m still not clear on what they do all day. Do they all just sit around in this “Twilight Zone’ house you’ve described and do drugs? Don’t they go out at all?” I shook my head. “No, Sidney and I had them under surveillance for a week before we made contact. Sue never left the house except once to get groceries. Danny never left at

all. Their purchasers all came to them.” “What about the little girl?” That was Kathy, probably thinking about her own small son and daughter, Travis and Stephanie. “Doesn’t she go out and play with the other little kids in the neighborhood, or have them over to her place? I mean, she’s just a kid; she must do something.” “No,” I answered. “Julie appears to have no friends. She does not leave the house, nor do any children come

to visit

her. She looks as if she could use friends too, the poor thing. She is underweight, her eyes are sunk deep into their sockets, and she is as pale as a ghost. From the glimpses we caught of her, her hair is matted and filthy, and her clothes are much too big for her. She looks like a waif in a bad Hollywood B movie.” “Except that this is no movie,” said Sidney. “No wonder her father wants her back. Imagine the life that poor child is having.” ’ Kathy was still puzzled. “What about church? I know school is out for the summer, but surely the child is in some activities, some preschool or summer recreational clubs.”

Kent put his arm around Kathy and gave her a quick hug. “Not everyone is into ‘Ozzie and Harriet’ like you, 100

Kathy,” he teased.

“There

are

truly some

children

in this

world who don’t watch ‘Sesame Street’ and wear Batman P]’s out in public.” Kathy blushed. She hated being teased about her subur-

ban image. I think she had a picture of herselfin her mind as a tough, hard-boiled detective, taking no grief, chewing glass and spitting nails. She still hadn’t realized that her compassion and kindness were the two traits that made her most useful as a private investigator. She was about to retort to Kent, when Donna broke in again. “Danny Thompkins, aged twenty-nine, five feet, nine inches tall, 160 pounds, dark hair, shaggy beard, thick, uneven mustache. No criminal record, no arrests. High school

dropout, dishonorable discharge from the navy. He met Sue—where? Do we know? Were the two of them carrying on during our client’s marriage?” I consulted my notes. “We don’t have that information yet. We observed the house from the outside for a week, then made contact and were invited in.” Kent laughed. “And just what ruse did you use this time? Did you say you ran over the poor woman’s dog?” That’s a common technique I use to get invited into someone’s house. Of course, I quickly describe a dog that is not like the person’s, then we both laugh over my mistake as the homeowner shows her relief. The homeowner’s happiness that her pet is okay is a good icebreaker. “No, Sue doesn’t seem to have a dog. Although, in that house of hers, you could lose a Saint Bernard in the rubble and not see it for months. No, this time I used good old Bill Erisman.” _ Bill Erisman was a sailor boyfriend of mine from Ohio. We roller-skated together. I hadn’t seen him in at least thirty years, but for some reason, I always use his name. It is a goodluck charm that hasn’t failed me yet. I pretend that I am look101

ing for Bill. In this case, Sidney and I drove up to Sue’s house and knocked on the door. I asked whether Bill was there. When Sue said that no such person lived there, I produced a piece of paper with Bill’s name and her address and doublechecked the address. Sue was very courteous, saying that the address was right, but that no Bill lived there. I asked whether I could use her telephone. “Sidney, you had better stay outside. I’m sure this lady doesn’t want a strange man in her home. It’s nice enough of her to let me use her telephone as it is.” Sue fell for the bait. “Oh, that’s all right. He looks nice enough.” She smiled at Sidney, who tried to look meek and mild, but succeeded only in looking as if he had a severe digestive upset. “Come on in. The phone is over there, by the couch.” Sue not only let us in, but she told us to make ourselves comfortable while she vanished to the rear of the house. That was how Sidney and I had been able to do a little exploration and get our impressions of the Taj of Trash. In the office, the conversation continued for about three hours. At the end of that time, we had rehashed several times what we knew about the mother, daughter, and

boyfriend. Each of us was clear on what we had done so far on the case. Now it was time to make plans for our next steps. I pulled a yellow pad toward me and began writing. “Kent, I want you to draw up a schedule for surveillance. There will be two of you there at all times in two separate vehicles. If someone leaves the house, one investigator will follow, while the other will remain viewing the house. And of course, the rest of us will make periodic spot-checks. I want you to have cameras and take as many pictures as possible of Danny, Sue, and Julie. Take pictures also of their ‘visitors,’ especially any unsavory-looking ones. Be sure to snap the vehicles as well, with the license plates clearly visible. Remember, 102

our goal is to show that this is an improper environment for a small child. We’ll pick up and look through the trash and see what kind of diet this child is being fed. From the looks of her, I'd bet she hasn’t had anything other than Cheese Doodles and Ring Dings in weeks. And don’t forget to check that trash for needles and other drug paraphernalia. We stand a good chance of getting the child for our client if we can show drug activity that might result in a dangerous encounter with the child present or an accidental overdose by the child.” Kent stood up and saluted. The others got to their feet slowly, filing out, still chatting about the case. I leaned back in my chair and shook my head. I had been able to go home and take a long, hot shower to get rid of the filth of that place. Poor five-year-old Julie probably never got clean. I shook my head again. I was determined to win this case. I had never lost a child-custody case before, and this one was too important to be my first loss. I telephoned Randy Mansfield, our client. For fifteen minutes, I filled him in on what we had found, the dirt and

awful conditions in the house, and the danger from the gas leak. He was stunned at first, not quite believing me. It was

obvious he thought that I was exaggerating, that no one lived that way. “Ms. Bolin, that’s not possible. Just ‘cause they’re poor

don’t mean they are like that,” he protested. “Randy, I assure you that if anything, I have underplayed the conditions. Don’t get the idea that I went in there with middle-class standards and judged everything by those. I have been in plenty of poor homes in my career. I know the difference between shabby furniture bought on the installment plan and broken furniture crawling with bugs.” Randy’s voice changed from plaintive to angry. “Then we have got to get Julie out of there. It’s that Danny who’s causing the problems.

When

Sue and

103

I were

together, we

didn’t keep the place perfect, but we never had bugs or nothing like you described. It’s that Danny.” I agreed with my client. The problems did seem to arise from Danny, and more especially, from his drugs. “Ms. Bolin, what are we going to do next? Can’t we go to court right now and get my daughter? No judge would let her keep living there. I’m living with my mom now, and she’s willing to take care of Julie. Mom runs that day-care center, you know, and loves kids. Mom would be great forJulie.”

I carefully explained

to Randy what

would be. First, we would continue

our

procedure

to have surveillance on

the house and the trio. We would talk to people who knew the family—neighbors, Julie’s teachers, her relatives

(aunt,

grandparents). Our original plan had been to get close to Sue and Danny, and to go over to their house frequently. However, just one visit was enough to convince me I didn’t want to be there any more than was absolutely necessary. Besides being disgusted by the filth of the place, I was seriously concerned that we would all be blown sky-high by a gas explosion or be torn apart by bullets in a drug deal gone sour. I preferred not to be around when some of Danny and Sue’s unsavory friends came by. I did, however,

intend

to keep in contact with Sue by

telephone and invite her out for lunch occasionally. And of course, the several investigators I put on the case would take pictures and get statements wherever possible. When I finished explaining all this to Randy, I paused, expecting to hear some thanks. Instead, there was a long silence. ... “Randy? Randy, are you still there?” Randy’s

voice

sounded

sad and

old.

“Ms.

Bolin,

this

sounds good, but you know I don’t have much money. How much is this going to cost me? I want my daughter back, and I'll pay you every penny if it takes me forever, but just want

you to know, I don’t have much money. I’m already working 104

a second job just to pay these bills.” I sighed. Randy and I had already been through this when he came to my office for the first time. We had also discussed it the two times he and I had met at Taco Tico, a near-

by Mexican restaurant. Randy, like many of my other clients, preferred not to be seen coming to my office too many times. I let my voice become a little sharp. “Randy, we talked through all this already. You signed a contract, remember? It specifically stated that you will pay fifty dollars an hour. We will use up your retainer fee first. If the charges exceed that amount, I’ll discuss the new costs with you.”

Randy had already sold his car to pay my fee. When I started off in this business, I would have felt guilty letting a client do this. However, I quickly learned the hard way that sympathy is a little too costly. It’s fine and noble to say magnanimously, “Oh, just pay me a little now and I’ll collect the rest when the case is finished; you can pay me as you can afford to,” but the sad truth of the matter is that once the case

is finished, the client will never pay up. I have to pay my own investigators from ten to twenty-five dollars per hour; if I don’t collect from the client, that money comes out of my own pocket. Randy still sounded unsure. “Uh, I don’t want to insult you, Ms. Bolin, but it’s just that my friends all tell me how I could be taken advantage of now, since I’ll do anything to get Julie back.” To me, it was just another case, but to Randy, this was life and death, his daughter’s life, and his. I took the edge out of

my voice. “T understand. I want to get your daughter back as much as you do, Randy. I know you are vulnerable right now, but I am not going to take advantage of you. I have worked dozens of child-custody cases, and I understand how upsetting they 105

are. All I can say is that I will do my very best for you and that I will keep the expenses as low as possible. I do need your cooperation, however, and please do not discuss this case with your friends. We already discussed that we could have problems if too many people know what we’re doing. I’ve been in this business for a long time. I know what I am doing, and I am honest. And since this case is right here in town, you will save a lot on expenses. There won’t be any hotel bills, and no large mileage or transportation fees.” It took about fifteen more minutes of reassurance before Randy hung up. You know, everyone in every business complains about paperwork. I agree that shuffling papers is a drawback to any job, but in myjob, I deal with people who are rather desperate. They constantly need reassurance that the case is going well, that everything is going to turn out right. I spend many hours a day on the telephone, talking, soothing, promising. Of course, I can’t promise a happy ending; no reputable detective would do that. But I always promise to do my best. I also mention that we will need to limit the time we spend on the telephone, in order to get the work done on the case. We accomplish nothing visiting on the telephone. The next few months went quickly. We kept surveillance on the house, but little changed. Julie did start going to school. The school was only five blocks away from home, but she got a ride every morning from her mother. The Pontiac was kicked into life most mornings for the short ride. As Donna reported with amazement, the mornings the Pontiac wouldn’t start, mother and daughter would go back into the house and stay there all day. Rather than walk a lousy five blocks, the mother kept her child out of school. Little seemed to change in the people themselves. Julie still looked haggard and ill. Sue was still filthy, with a body odor easily discernible at ten feet, according to our ob106

servers. Mother and daughter stayed at home except for trips to school and the grocery store. Danny continued to have mysterious guests, some of whom stayed for days, others of whom were in and out in five minutes. One interesting fact that emerged was that the porch light was on all night long, and it was on and off during the day time. It was not difficult to interpret that as a signal to the drug purchasers. There was one change. Danny and Sue got married. One afternoon, Sue ran into a friend of Randy’s at the store. The friend, Dave, mentioned that Randy was going to ask for custody of Julie. Sue, frightened, called Annabell, Randy’s mother. Annabell, who talked much too much for a private

investigator’s liking, confirmed Dave’s story. Sue then talked Danny into marrying her in order to strengthen her own case. She also took Julie to visit Annabell, letting Randy see his daughter for the first time in two years. Randy had been paying child support faithfully, but he had not been able to visit with Julie since the divorce. Sue had left, and not given anyone her new address or unlisted telephone number (I got it off the phone on my first visit). Sue hoped that by allowing Randy to visit with Julie a few times at his mother’s, he would be more amenable to dropping the custody suit. Unfortunately, while Randy was thrilled at being able to be with his daughter, he was so horrified at her unnourished and slovenly condition that he was more determined than ever to take her away from her mother. He repeatedly asked me for Sue’s address (which we’d obtained through driving records). However, I refused to give it to him, afraid that he would storm over there and precipitate a fight. The last thing Randy needed was to confront a drugged-out Danny. After

two

months,

we

had a sizable

file on

this case.

Then one thing happened that we thought would put the icing on the cake. I found out about it when I got a call from Kent, who had been observing the residence that morning. 107

On

October

16, 1984,

at 10:20

A.M.

two

policemen

walked purposefully up the walk to the Thompkins’ residence. According to Kent, Sue and Julie had left about an

hour before and had gone to Sue’s mother’s house a few miles away. The officers knocked on the door, which was opened by Danny, pointing a gun just a few inches from their noses. As Kent so colorfully put it, “For a few seconds, all I

saw was a blur of blue as the officers did their Jesse Owens imitations, getting away from the gun and under cover.” The officers got behind a corner of the house and began talking to Danny. Their conversation went on for over two hours, with Danny waving the shotgun at them to punctuate his shouts. Finally, one officer was able to sneak around behind and subdue Danny. He was led away to the police car, still shouting. It appeared that he was not so upset about being arrested as about having to leave his home. Kent could only make out something about “a man’s home is his castle.” He said that he almost burst out laughing at the description, thinking of what a pit of filth this particular “castle” was. Kent followed the car to the police station. There he learned that Danny Thompkins had been arrested and charged with oral sodomy and the attempted rape of aminor child. Julie Mansfield was the perpetrator’s victim. The facts were all too familiar to anyone who watches the evening news. That morning, Sue had made one of her infrequent excursions from the safety of her home (gas and all), going to the doctor’s office to obtain tranquilizers for herself. She left her daughter in the care of her new husband, Danny. Danny had been dragooned into driving Julie to school that morning. But Julie never made it. According to the story the child told to the police counselors, Danny came into the bathroom that morning as she was dressing. Only six years old (she had a birthday while we were on the case), Julie often needed help putting on her 108

clothes and thought nothing of it when Danny began to help. But instead of pulling Julie’s sweater down, Danny pulled it up, along with her shirt and her undershirt. He then pulled down Julie’s pants and attempted to rape the child. Julie screamed as loudly as she could and fought back, kicking and screaming. Her counterattack was partially successful in that Danny was not able to penetrate her. However, he did not give up his act entirely; he forced Julie to perform oral sex on him. When Sue returned from the doctor’s office, she found

Julie hysterically sobbing in the living room. Julie immediately ran to her mother and blurted out the whole story. Sue was furious. She yelled and screamed at Danny, yanked the child by the hand, and left home. Danny stood in the doorway yelling that he didn’t touch Julie, that she was lying to get attention. Kent and Sidney were on surveillance duty the day when this attack took place. When they heard about it, they were furious. Naturally, they had not been able to hear Julie’s screams, as they were parked more than a block away from the house. While I was sorry for what happened to Julie, of course, I was more than a little relieved that the men had not

been able to overhear the attack. They have both taken the law into their own hands more than once. Never in a million years would they have stood by and let Julie be hurt, even though it would have cost us the case and cost Randy custody of his daughter. Julie and her mother drove to the police station to tell the story. They had been at Sue’s mother’s house when Sue called the police to inform them about what Danny had done to Julie. The police had told Sue that she would have to bring Julie and come in to the police department to file a complaint. The police wanted to question both Julie and Sue. 109

Julie had to repeat her story several times, to a policewoman and a state-employed counselor for abused children. Both women had, unfortunately, much experience in dealing with abused children and were completely convinced that Julie was telling the truth. In addition, at the recommendation of the police, Sue took Julie to the doctor that same day. The doctor found evidence of bodily injury that day, and further evidence of previous sexual abuse. Everyone involved suggested that Sue keep Julie separated from her stepfather at all times. The doctor suggested counseling for Julie, beginning immediately. Still in a rage, Sue agreed to follow all the suggestions. She and Julie moved into Sue’s mother’s home. Danny remained in jail. Danny didn’t stay in jail long. While incarcerated, he repeatedly called Sue at her mother’s. He told her how much he loved her and Julie, and that he was amazed she would actually believe Julie before him. He harped on how Julie was just a child, with an active imagination, and he brought up instances of Julie’s talking about imaginary playmates or telling stories of events that never actually happened. When Sue brought up the doctor and the counselors, both of whom believed Julie, Danny argued that “Those types of people are just out to get people like us; they want to believe the worst of us because we're poor.” Sue weakened quickly. Since she did love Danny, she wanted to believe him. Sue went to work on her daughter. For more than two hours (as we found out later), she yelled at and then sweet-

talked to Julie, asking her repeatedly whether or not she had lied. The child, worn down by the trauma of the last few days and only wanting to please her mother, gave in and said what her mother wanted to hear. Sue then slapped Julie, called her a liar, and made her tell the police that she had lied. Even though the police and the child-abuse experts thought Julie had told the truth the 110

first time, they were forced to accept her new story. Without Julie’s testimony, there was no case against Danny. He left county jail only forty-eight hours after being admitted. It was time for us to interview Sue ourselves. I had managed to stay on good terms with her, through telephone conversations and infrequent lunch dates, since that day when I knocked on her door looking for Bill Erisman. I still didn’t tell her that I was a PI, but I said that two friends of mine were interested in meeting her. I purposely left their connection very foggy, not specifying that they (and I) represented her ex-husband. Sue was more than willing to talk to anyone who was a friend of mine. Quite honestly, I think she thought I was using the “meeting” as front for sending someone over to purchase drugs. I sent Donna and John Harrison, my brother, to speak with Sue when Danny wasn’t home. It was obvious from the start that although Sue had fought to drop the charges against Danny, she still knew him to be guilty of child abuse. The investigators had expected that; they had much experience of wives who decided to drop charges against their husbands despite knowing them to have committed the abuse. What did surprise Donna and John, however, was the reason that Sue had called the police in the first place. It wasn’t, as you might expect, out of a concern for the well-being of her daughter, nor out of any maternal love, but out of jealousy. Sue was jealous that Danny wanted to have sex with anyone other than herself. She felt no shame about admitting that Danny lked children. “Hey, I’ve even teased him about them. We was watching TV once and when a little girl came on, I like, nudged him

and said that she was just his type.” John tried to keep a poker face and not show any of the revulsion he was feeling. “What did your husband say?” Sue shrugged and shooed a bug off her leg. “Nothin’. 1

He just sorta shoved me a little.” Her eyes darkened. “But I know

he does like little kids.

I don’t know

why he has to,

when he has me. I mean, I’m his wife. If he wants sex or anything, I can give it to him. He don’t need no kids to make him happy. I can do that.” Donna and John were silent. Sue went on. “You know how them men are. They like that sex, no matter where they get it from.” Donna covered her mouth with her hand so Sue wouldn’t notice she was about to choke. “Then you think that Danny did have sex with your daughter?” Donna smiled at Sue, hoping for a truthful answer. Sue sensed a trap and began to bluster. “No, no, no, of

course not. I didn’t say that. I explained all that to them other people. Danny was just jokin’ with her.” Sue didn’t meet the investigators’ eyes. “My kid, she’s just six. She’s a little liar, like all kids are. You know how when you was a kid and you lied all the tme? That’s how my kid is too. Besides that, she ain’t even pretty. Danny wouldn't be in-

terested in her for that.” Sue preened, brushing her hair off her grimy forehead with an equally grimy hand. “How do you know your daughter was lying, Sue?” John wanted to know. “How do I know? It done took me two hours to break her down, that little liar. Ijust kept on tellin’ her, ‘I know you done went and lied on Danny, now didn’t you’.” She smiled at John and Donna, then continued. “She finally told me she was lyin’ and I know she just wanted to make a big deal out of it, that’s all. She never liked Danny, but he’s been good to her Donna and John shuffled their feet and rose to leave. “If you think he does that again, you should call the cops.” John was smiling at Sue. Sue waved them away. “I ain’t never gonna call the cops 112

again. Nothin’ happened except that my kid lied. And she won't ever do that again. I told her what a whoopin’ she’d get if she went and lied about Danny any more. He’s her daddy now, and she can’t say things like that about him ever again. ‘No more lyin’,’ I told her.” When John and Donna came back to the office, they gave Audrey their reports to type up and make copies for everyone involved on the case. Reading over them, we were all very quiet. Finally, Donna burst out, “It’s not natural. No mother can be like that. She puts her husband, the man she knows is lying to her and having sex with a six-year-old, before her own daughter. No wonder Randy wants to get Julie back.” Sidney patted the file in front of him. “Don’t worry. We have enough evidence here to take Julie away. Even if she goes into a foster home, that'll be better for her than staying with Sue. No court would let a little girl stay with a stepfather who abused her.” Kent shook his head. Ever the voice of caution, he said,

“Let's

not

be

too

sure.

Remember,

the

charges

were

dropped. There is no proof that Danny abused Julie.” Sidney scowled at him. “What about the doctor’s report and the counselor’s opinion?” “They’re just that, opinions,” Kent shot back.

“The doctor found physical evidence of abuse,” Sidney insisted. I broke in to agree with Kent. “The doctor found evidence of abuse, but there is no causal linkage to connect it with Danny. No one can prove Danny committed that abuse.” I turned to Kent. “But I think you are being overly cautious, Kent. We have those photographs of the house that we man-aged to sneak in behind Sue’s back, recorded statements of the instructors at the school that Julie so rarely attends, and plenty of notes of our own. I think we’ll have Julie out of there pretty quickly.” 1!fee)

I was wrong. Things started off well. At our recommendation,

Mansfield hired Nicholas Wade

(better known

Randy

as Nick), an

attorney who specialized in child-custody matters. Like our firm, he had never lost a custody battle. He was a hard-working, intelligent, meticulous man who cared about doing the best for the children. We met with him and Randy Mansfield several times. All of us were feeling hopeful when we headed into court. That optimism dropped significantly when we were assigned Judge Roger Parker, a jurist little respected by the attorneys who practiced in front of him. Judge Parker’s nickname, in fact, is “Judge Barker,” meaning that he is all talk and doesn’t do much for advancing the cause ofjustice. A child custody case is not like the Perry Mason-Hamilton Burger confrontations that we see on television reruns. There is no jury. The entire case is heard by the judge. In Oklahoma, the same judge who heard the divorce case always hears the child-custody suit (and if there is an appeal, he or she hears that as well. In Oklahoma, it’s one judge, till death us do part). In fact, much of the action has taken place be-

fore the courtroom ever opens. Both sides have given their legal briefs and all attached documents to the court. The judge has carefully reviewed them and is thoroughly familiar with the facts of the case before he or she ever opens court. The main reason for the hearing at all is so that the judge can ask questions that arose during the reading of the briefs and get any additional information that has arisen in the meantime. While in bitterly contested child-custody cases there may

be courtroom

theatrics, with

loud

cross-examinations

and the occasional cheer from the spectators, in this case, there were only a few people present. The judge opened court. “Mr. Wade, do you have any additional information?”

Nick looked puzzled. This was not what he had expect114

ed. He and I both thought we had a strong case. We thought that the judge would come into court, go through the formalities, then turn Julie over to her father. “No, Your Honor. I felt that the information I gave you about the physical condition of the child, the lack of adequate care, the improper environment—” The judge interrupted, “Please, Counselor, don’t argue

your case now. I didn’t ask you for a summary. I am quite familiar with the facts, such as they are. I merely asked you whether you had anything additional, anything solid, to offer:

I felt my stomach turn. It appeared that the judge had already made up his mind that our case was not good. That didn’t seem possible given everything we had. I looked at Nick. He had obviously taken off the gloves and was ready to do battle. “Your Honor,”

he began courteously,

“the evidence

of

Mr. Thompkins’s child abuse alone—” Again the judge interrupted. “Evidence? I see no evidence, Counselor Wade. I saw a doctor’s report that said the child had injuries but no proof linking those injuries to the stepfather. I saw a doctor’s report saying there had been past sexual abuse but no proof linking that abuse to Mr. Thompkins. The child’s own mother has given the court a statement denying her husband’s involvement.” “I have witnesses, Your Honor, who can testify to the sexual abuse,” said Nick.

“Do you claim that those witnesses were present while the abuse was being performed? Were they there in the room?” asked the judge. “No, Your Honor. But they—” “Are there any witnesses other than the ones you mentioned in your brief, other than the police, counselors, doc-

tor, and the private investigators... hired by the father?” iS

“No, Your Honor. But—”

“Then I fail to see the need to call any.”

I was glad to see that Nick looked as if he were going to blow up. I felt the same way myself. “Fail to see the need? Your Honor, this is a six-year-old girl’s life we are talking about. I believe I have a mght to put on the witnesses.” Nick raised his voice. I heard a giggle and looked around. Sue and Danny were sitting in court, chortling like a couple of little kids. Sue was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and she could be smelled at ten paces. Danny was similarly attired. He had made some effort to clean himself up, however, as his long hair was pulled into a braid, rather than falling all over his face as it usually did. One unusual thing, though. He wore the brand-new shirt we had seen upon entering the filthy residence when we first began the investigation. I couldn't help comparing them to Randy. He was sitting there in a suit and tie, looking mature and responsible, concentrating on what was being said. Judge Parker gave a martyr’s sigh and glanced at his watch. “Very, well, Counselor. Go ahead and call your witnesses. But keep in mind that there will have to be new evidence, real evidence, showing that the natural mother

and

stepfather should not keep the child.” Now I understood more fully the reasons behind Nick’s groan when he found out who our judge was. “Paula, Judge Parker has ruled for the woman in every single child custody case that has ever come before him. Our evidence is strong, and with any other judge, we would get custody immediately. All we can do is hope that Parker has mellowed with age.” No such luck. Nick put on the first witness. Judge Parker listened with a bored expression on his face. He stared ostentatiously at the clock, willing Nick to get done quickly. Faced with the judge’s stony silence and impatient glare, Nick threw in the towel. As he told me later, there was no 116

need to run up his bill and make the client pay more money when the judgement was already obvious. “The court rules that custody shall remain with Sue Thompkins,

the child’s natural

mother,

and

her husband,

Danny Thompkins. The natural father, Randy Mansfield, will have visitation rights every other weekend, commencing with next weekend. Due to the child’s tender age, she may not spend the night away from home. Mr. Mansfield may pick up the child at 10:00 A.M. on Saturday and Sunday and will return her to the Thompkins’ home by 6:00 P.M.” After court, Kent, John, Douglas, Donna, Kathy, and I went to Tony’s Via Roma, our favorite Italian restaurant, for

an early dinner. No one said much, as we were all very depressed over the outcome. We didn’t care about breaking our perfect record in custody matters, only about how we failed one little girl who was depending on us. Randy had taken the verdict calmly. I think in the back of his mind, he had always felt that somehow his ex-wife and her husband would be able to win. As he put it, “No matter what she does or how bad she is, she’s the mother

and that’s all the courts care

about.” Maybe he was right. Douglas broke the silence. “Is Randy going to appeal? Seeing how furious Nicholas Wade was, he’s probably frothing at the bit to file an appeal right now.” I shook my head. “And get Judge Parker again? What’s the use? No, Randy is afraid that if he appealed, Danny and Sue would take the child and just run away. That’s what Sue did before we located her. Then Randy would never see his daughter again. At least this way, he knows where she is (we gave him her address and telephone number prior to going into court) and can keep an eye on her. Besides, he reasons that now the police and social agencies know that there is a problem, they will also be watching Danny. It’s just a matter of time until he gets caught.” nal,

Donna interjected, “I can’t believe what the judge said. Can you imagine, actually saying, ‘Come back when the child is RAPED and then you'll have a case!’ It’s as if he almost hopes that will happen!” I tried to find some bright side. “Well, at least Julie will get to choose which parent she wants to live with when she turns twelve years old.” “If she holds together that long.” Douglas was as gloomy as the rest of us. “Did I tell you all that Nick found out that Sue’s dad is a golfing buddy of Judge Parker?” We nodded,

“Yes,” I said, “but I don’t think that made

any difference. Judge Parker is honest by his own rights. He truly thinks every child belongs with her mother, no matter how awful the living situation.” There was more silence. Then Kent piped up, “Maybe Sue will keep Julie away from her stepfather now, won’t let the two of them be alone together.” Douglas nodded. “And maybe she'll ignore the court’s hours and let Randy take Julie for the weekend or for a vacation. She certainly doesn’t seem to care whether she’s home or not.” More silence. I lifted my glass. “A toast to Julie Mansfield: may she find health and happiness soon.” Six glasses clicked. Then Kathy stood up. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m going home now to give my daughter, Stephanie, a big hug.”

118

CHAPTER 6

The Fence-Hopping Survey “You think your husband is having an affair because of the toilet handle?” I couldn’t believe my ears. In my many years as a private investigator, I had sat in my office and heard hundreds of spouses telling me of their suspicions. They felt they had been cheated on because of everything from lipstick on the collar to blonde hairs in the bed. I think my favorite client was the very rich and very funny lady who found a dead cockroach with a red hair on it at the foot of her husband’s side of the bed. Knowing that she had no cockroaches in her house—and no red hair!—she hired me to put the cockroach under the windshield wiper of the girlfriend’s sports car. She also wanted me to follow her husband, and to make

myjob simpler, as she put it, she mixed cod liver oil in the salad dressing. “Now Herbert will have to make frequent pit stops, and you can keep an eye on him easier!” That client gave me some great stories for cocktail parties, as have many of my clients. But this was the first time I had ever been confronted with a psychic client who interpreted toilet handles! “Well, it’s not only the toilet handle, although of course

that was my first clue,” said Wanda Carlson, my soon-to-beclient. Now that put me in a dilemma.

I wanted, of course, to

hear her other proof, especially if it were as colorful as this 119

BLOTS “Me

(in my mind, I was already formulating the story I would tell at the next investigators’ convention: just let them try to top this one!), but I also just had to hear more about the toilet handle. If she had made her deductions from the toilet seat,

it might make a little more sense, such as if her husband habitually left it up and it was suddenly down all the time. But the handle? “Wanda, before you go on, please tell me more about the toilet handle.” I was beginning to get an obsession with this! “Just exactly how does it provide proof of unfaithfulness on the part of your husband?” “IT can tell just by looking at it that a woman has flushed it last.” Wanda made this amazing statement with a straight face. For

a moment,

I had to wonder whether she was a shill sent

in to tease me. I racked my mind, but I couldn’t think of any friends with whom I had a practical joke going. That’s not to say I hadn’t had some doozies in the past. I remember one time when Steve Swanson, an attorney friend of mine, disguised his voice and called me, pretending to be blind drunk. He, slurring his words and hiccuping madly like Foster Brooks meets Crazy Gugenheim, wept that he wanted me to follow his unfaithful wife. When the “client” got off the phone, Steve called me again, this time as himself. He assured me that the alcoholic client was very wealthy and a case worth investigating. I agreed to meet the alcoholic in—where else, a bar, and was already counting the dollars I would make on the case. When I walked into the bar, there

was Steve, a big grin on his face, and Monopoly money in his hand, wanting to “hire only the best.” And then there was my son Anthony’s favorite story, the one he insists on repeating at every party. Another PI sent me to an attorney’s office, saying the lawyer had a case for me. From the moment I walked in, the attorney eyed me up and 121

down, staring until I was uncomfortable. When the attorney paused in his leers for a moment, I managed to sputter out, “Bob sent me regarding a case?” The attorney gave me another soulful look, smoothed his hair back, straightened his tie, and said, “Ah, yes, you're

the hooker he asked me to represent!” It took some time to straighten that one out. Even when I showed my private investigator’s identification card, the attorney was convinced that I had lifted it off a John! Yes, I had been both the perpetuator and the victim of many practical jokes in my business, but right now, I couldn’t imagine anyone doing something quite this strange. I shook my head to get rid of these memories and concentrated on the woman in front of me. “But how?” I had to know. Wanda leaned forward, an exasperated look on her face. “I can just tell, I tell you. Haven’t you ever looked at something and just known? I can’t pin it down any more than that. Women’s intuition, maybe.” I resolved right then and there not to tell all this story to

my sons. They teased me enough about my women’s intuition. If they ever got hold of this tale, I wouldn't hear the end of it. Wanda was still talking. “And I said there was other evidence.” I pulled my yellow pad toward me and began writing. In block letters at the very top, I wrote “Toilet Handle!” I could just imagine what Audrey would think when she typed up these notes. I managed to put an inquisitive expression on my face and looked at Wanda expectantly. I was pretty sure that she wasn’t a trick from a friend, but there was still the

possibility that she was a refugee from a strait-jacket somewhere. Her appearance was reassuring. She looked like some122

one who had been a cheerleader and then a stewardess in her youth. She had that perkiness about her. She was only about five-foot three, with brown hair parted in the middle and hitting the top of her shoulders. She was dressed conservatively, with a blue suit and white blouse, little gold button

earrings. She had already mentioned that she taught third grade at a nearby school. Nothing about her made me think she was anything but serious; nothing, that is, but her talk about prognosticating toilet handles. “What other evidence, please? Be specific,” I said. “There were two dirty spoons in the sink. They were used for stirring coffee. Ralph uses only one spoon, so his girlfriend must have used the other one,” replied Wanda. I stared at her. “Isn’t it possible that Ralph had two cups of coffee and used two different spoons to stir them?” Wanda shook her head vehemently. “No, Ralph only drinks one cup of coffee. That’s his habit, and Ralph never breaks a habit.” On my yellow pad, I wrote, “Coffee cheater.” “And,” Wanda

continued,

“there were

creases

on

the

bedroom sheets.” For the first time, I got interested. Bed sheets could indeed tell a tale. “Creases?” I asked. “Did you find makeup stains, or hairs? Or was there—” I put on my joking face—“a black lace teddy crammed between the sheet and blanket?” Wanda had no sense of humor. “No, just creases.” Point number three on the yellow pad: “A New Wrinkle.” Someday I have to get over this habit of writing up my notes like headlines in the National Enquirer. I summarized. “Your husband, Ralph, aged fifty-six, has been unfaithful to you. You deduced this from the toilet handle, a dirty spoon, and wrinkled percale.” I intentionally put it that way to make my client see how absurd this was, but 123

again, the humor went right over her head. In fact, she seemed smug. “That’s right. Pretty good detective work, isn’t it, if Ido say so myself.” Wanda was positively beaming now. I beamed right back. “We’ll have to hire you in the firm.” I got scared as soon as I said that. Never joke with someone with no sense of humor. The last thing I needed was for Wanda to take me seriously. For just a moment, I daydreamed about what our office would be like with her as an operative. We could solve every bathroom case that came up. I could just hear Sidney Armstrong now: “We'll bill ourselves as the Pinkertons of Pee-Pee!” “I know every move that Ralph is making. All I want is for you to get evidence for me,” said Wanda.

At this stage, I always ask why. I need to know, because if there is going to be a court case, I have to proceed differently than if the client is gathering the information only to satisfy her own curiosity. If we are going to get evidence to use in a trial, I have to be very careful to follow certain rules. If the client merely wants “to know for sure,” I can be more flexible and a little more aggressive in my methods. I also need to know the client’s motives so that I can be sure there is a legitimate problem. A few times, I have found myself deceived by insane clients who made up cases out of nothing, wasting my time (and those clients rarely made good on my fee, either). These insane ones often seemed very intelligent and interesting; it wasn’t until the case progressed that I found out their problems were more emotional and mental than circumstantial. I

have learned from experience that the more questions I ask up front, the better. It was time to get down to basics. The fas-

cination of the toilet handle would have to wait. “Wanda, do you have any idea with whom your husband is cheating?” 124

I always ask this question. In most instances, it elicits several names. Usually, the betrayed spouse has a very good idea exactly who the “other woman” is, but she doesn’t want to be right. She therefore hides the person’s name amidst several others, hoping against hope she is wrong. It is rare that a spouse who knows enough to recognize unfaithfulness can’t put a name to the other party. “It’s that little snip next door,” said Wanda. Ah, the little snip. The other woman usually fell into one of three categories: snip, tramp, or bitch. Bitch predominated, but snip was a close second. “Tell me her name, address, and everything you know about her. What were her previous names, if any? Where does she work? Who are her friends and associates? If you have a picture of her, that would be helpful as well.” Getting information from the client was a great savings in time and money. Of course, the facts had to be filtered through the spleen the client was venting and checked for accuracy. But Wanda, apart from the language that seemed so out of place with her tailored appearance (you just don’t expect to hear “bazooms out to here!” from a woman wearing a tie), gave the facts rather concisely. It boiled down to the fact that the woman was young, beautiful, and a nextdoor neighbor. I had to admit that despite her strange way of identifying proof of cheating, Wanda might have something here. It was an old, old, story. I pulled out a contract, explained it to Wanda, and had

her sign it. As soon as she put her name on the dotted line and gave me a retainer fee of a thousand dollars, I was ready to go. I assured Wanda that our investigators would watch the Carlson house and tail Ralph. I had Wanda tell me the normal schedule that Ralph should be following, so that we could be especially aware of any deviations. With a firm handshake, she was gone. 125

At 7:30 the next morning, Kathy Peterson and I arrived at the Carlson residence. There was a particular reason why I chose Kathy to accompany me on this case, apart from the fact that she was a good investigator. She reminded me a little bit of Wanda. They were both very classy women, conservative, tailored. Of course, Kathy denied any special divination powers from toilet handles. (It took me a long time to convince her that our client really had said that and that I was not pulling her leg.) At 7:45 A.M., Wanda came out and strode purposefully to her car. She drove away, not glancing around to see where we were. I had warned her that she should be as normal as possible. I was relieved to see that she was following my orders; too few clients do. They all want to look around to be certain we are on the job. I recall one case in which a woman was unable to see our investigator Douglas Case, who was in a parked car behind several others. All day long she kept returning to her home to look for the investigator. When she couldn't find him (he had slunk down in his seat to avoid detection), she accused

us of not doing the job and refused to pay. She also prevented her husband (who was at home) from going to his girlfriend’s house, because she kept “popping” by to check up on the investigator. She was being charged our fee and preventing Douglas from gathering any evidence necessary to her own case. It took a lawsuit for me to get my money. But that case pales in comparison to another one I'll never forget. I had a client who insisted I hide in her office for eight hours (eight long, boring, tedious hours of staring out the same window), then follow her husband when he left

from leave, pared lowed

his next-door office. I saw the husband preparing to and snuck out to my car and started it up, to be preto follow him. As the husband came out, the wife folhim, undoing all my good work by screaming at the 126

top of her lungs, “PAULA! THAT’S HIM! FOLLOW HIM!” The husband,

no one’s fool, caught on to the situation im-

mediately. That case had an interesting outcome. The husband and I eventually became good friends... (he already knew my name) and the wife is still in prison for attempted murder! At 8:05 A.M., Ralph made his first appearance. He was not what I had expected. He looked much older than his fifty-six years. He had as many wrinkles on his face as a SharPei and was just as attractive. What surprised me the most was how he shuffled like an old man with aching joints. Kathy seemed just as surprised as I was. “This is Randy Ralph? I thought he’d be some stud, with gold chains and a springy step. I can’t see him doing the Between the Sheets Tango with anyone, let alone with a young, gorgeous neighbor next door,” said Kathy. I laughed. “Let’s not jump to conclusions here, or judge a stud by his speed. You and I have both had cases where men were less attractive than this one and had their pick of women. Besides, there’s no accounting for taste. Maybe Ralph is a real demon in the dark.” We looked again at Ralph, now dragging himself up the two shallow steps to the front porch, newspaper in hand. “Naaaa!” We laughed in unison. As Ralph went inside the house, rather like the Cheshire cat with each bit of him slowly disappearing, Kathy had a thought. “Let’s listen for the toilet flushing. That’s bound to give him away.” No doubt about it, my investigators are the best in the business. The best smart alecks, that is.

At 8:45 A.M., Ralph slowly emerged again. He was carrying a brown paper sack. “Look closely, Paula. Does it say Frederick’s of Hollywood on it? Maybe it’s a gift for the snip,” said Kathy. jay)

I didn’t deign to answer. We followed Ralph’s 1979 Oldsmobile 88. It was a large car and made Ralph look small inside it. In fact, the steering wheel hid his face, making him crane his neck to see out the windshield. Ralph drove the three blocks to work at a snail’s pace. We had to take the drive in low gear. Promptly at 9:00 A.M., Ralph arrived at work and went inside, carrying his brown paper sack that probably had nothing in it more incriminating than a ham on rye. That was the last we saw of him until 5:15 p.M. He came out of the building,

sans the sandwich, car keys in hand. He drove at the same incredibly slow pace back home, parked carefully, and oozed into the house. We stayed in the street, watching the house. No activity occurred until Wanda pulled up at 7:45 p.M. Our orders had been to remain until Wanda got home. Accordingly, we left and went back to the office for a few minutes to write up our notes. The next morning, we were on the job at 7:30 A.M. again. And again, Wanda left. Shortly afterwards, Ralph slithered out for the paper, then left for his job, brown paper bag in hand. Ralph stayed at work all day, and returned home promptly at 5:15 p.M. We stayed until Wanda got home at 7:55 p.M., then left. This exact routine was followed for five

days. Wanda had one point at least when she said that Ralph would never drink two cups of coffee. It was obvious that he was a man of very fixed habits. The morning of the sixth day, we called Wanda at work

and had her come into our office. She bounced in, smiling at everyone, certain she was going to get the proof she wanted. She wasn’t even settled into the chair when she said, “Well? I

was right, wasn’t I? It’s that snip next door. Did you take pictures? I hope he didn’t see you.” “Wanda,” I said slowly, needing to break it to her gently

128

that she was not the superb detective she imagined herself to be. “Ralph is not cheating on you. All he is doing is going to work, then coming directly home. And the snip does not go to your house to see him.” The smile vanished immediately. “You’re crazy. Either that or you’re lying to me. Did Ralph buy you off?” I didn’t take offense. When clients hear news they don’t want to hear, they lash out at everyone around them. It’s common for a disgruntled client to accuse us of having been paid off by the other side (it’s a crime in Oklahoma to represent both sides in a matter, incidentally). I have been called a lot worse than crazy. In fact, there was one Portuguese woman who called me names that sounded like something out of Shakespeare, such as a poxhead. She must have learned her English from the classics. Sometimes clients are distrustful from the start. I recall one man who kept repeating, “But how can I be certain I can trust you in this matter? How can I be sure you are honest?” I countered with, “How can I be sure you will pay me?” That was a case I chose not to take. When the relationship begins with distrust, it’s a safe bet that nothing you do will ever satisfy the client. There are fewer headaches all around if the case is dropped before it’s begun. Kathy joined in. “No, no one bought us off. Here is a copy of our reports. The times are all noted. Ralph went from home to work to home again. He also read the newspaper. And that’s all.” Wanda wasn’t buying it. “Did you have all the exits at work covered? And did you cover the house as well while he was supposedly at work? What about the neighbor? Did you have someone over there?” Yet another client was telling me how to do myjob. But I had to admit that I had not done those things. “No, we just watched the front of the house until Ralph £29

came

out—”

I had to stop myself from

saying “hobbled

out”—“followed him to work, waited until he left there, then

followed him home. We stayed at your house until you got home, then left him in your capable hands.” “That’s not good enough. You’re not doing the job. I thought I hired good detectives. Ralph could have snuck out the back way at any time. I want you to go again, and this time do the job I am paying you for,” said Wanda. We tried to reason with Wanda, to point out that when we first took her case, she said her evidence was located in

her own home. It would not make any sense that Ralph was seeing the “other woman” at any other location. I told her it was useless to observe her house while she and Ralph were at work and pointed out that the expense would be exorbitant. She didn’t care. Then we stated that in our opinion Ralph was faithful, and she would be throwing away her money. Wanda just snorted. “Boy, he has you two fooled all right. But he can’t fool

me. Ralph has never pulled the wool over my eyes in the entire time we’ve been married,” she said.

Somehow, I could believe that. In fact, I didn’t see poor Ralph (as I was beginning to think of him) even daring to try. Wanda wrote out another check. “By the way, I have been doing some more detective work on my own, and it’s a good thing, considering the lack of results you two have gotten. I now have absolute proof that Ralph is carrying on with our neighbor,” she said. I reached for my yellow pad. “SHE’S NOT MARRIED!” Wanda trumpeted out her news and sat back, waiting for applause. I didn’t dare look at Kathy. Considering the number of single women in the world, our Ralph must be a very busy boy indeed. I learned long ago you can’t reason with someone who is 130

unreasonable. I took the check, promised to do our best, and

ushered Wanda out of my office. The next morning, there were five of us on the case. Kent was sitting in his car, watching the Carlson house. Sidney and Donna followed Ralph to work. Sidney kept observation on the front exit, while Donna watched the rear.

They stationed themselves so that no matter how Ralph left the building, he would be seen. Kathy was in our customized van in front of the neighbor’s house. The van had a CB radio, tape recorder, camera, and some mace. We had used our trusty Dodge 440 in more than one chase. However, today the van was serving as a luxury hotel for Kathy. She was having a lovely time, with the air conditioner, a fridge full of cold drinks, and all the comforts of home. Me? Never let it be

said that the boss takes all the cushy jobs. I watched the neighbor’s house from the rear and the side. Actually, the decision for me to be in the mud was a logical one, not something I did to play the martyr. If any action was going to occur, it would be where I was. I wanted to be the one to see it, so that I would be the one testifying in court. Iam good on a witness stand, if I do say so myself. Besides, I was the logical choice. Kathy is new to our firm and untried in court so far. Sidney tends to be too blustery in court and gets easily angered by a pressing attorney. After years of experience, I have learned merely to smile gently at the lawyer and keep repeating the facts. Three things were immediately apparent. First of all, the neighbors of the Carlsons were not major gardeners. The spot of land at the rear of their lawn was all mud and muck. I had to choose that spot, as it was the only vantage point from which I could see both houses without being seen by anyone in them. Second, the neighborhood didn’t provide much excitement for dogs, because they all latched onto me as if I were the only interesting thing that had ever happened in ist

their short lives. One in particular, that I named Albino Snit,

was a small white mongrel. He—or she, I never got interested enough to check—obviously mistook my leg for a chew toy. No matter how often I shooed it away, it came back, licking and trying to nibble. And the third thingI noticed was the fence. Between the Carlsons’ and the snip’s was a six-foot-tall stockade fence. It surrounded the Carlsons’ entire backyard. Wanda hadn’t mentioned this. Did she expect Ralph to climb the fence to get at the neighbor? Or maybe she thought since the neighbor was young; it was her task to do the climbing. Ralph may have been the salt of the earth, but I just couldn’t see him inspiring any woman to scale a six-foot fence. According to Wanda’s reasoning, if I may call it that, the neighbor would have had to do just that—how else could she get into the Carlsons’ to flush the incriminating toilet? There was a small hole in the fence that I peered through. It was just the wrong height, making me stand on tiptoe. After five more days of surveillance, I went back to the office sporting: . . . . Re. NO 09 B® Ov

Dog chomp marks Eye strain Sore leg muscles Splinters in my hands Astrong conviction that my client was imagining the entire thing. Audrey

called Wanda

yet again. She came

into the

office, a little more warily after the last time.

“Wanda, I have been watching the neighbor’s house myself, from a vantage point in the backyard,” I said. Wanda looked up as a thought occurred to her. “Did anyone see you?” L32

I gave her my best professional detective look. “No, of course not. One of the skills a detective uses in observation is that of being undetected herself. I had a secure position. And I made certain that the owners of the yard I was standing in had left for work before I arrived and that I was gone before they returned.” “But suppose someone would have seen you? What would you have done?” Wanda would have made a great reporter. She was always ready with a follow-up question. “Oh.” I smiled, fiddling with my pencil. “I would have | just said that I was taking a fence-hopping survey.” “That’s a great idea!” Wanda said admiringly. Sometimes you can’t win. Here I had done an excellent job detecting for my client, but I lost her respect because I didn’t get the results she wanted. The truth hurt. But let me tell a joke, even a totally ridiculous one, and boom! Back comes the respect. There has to be a moral here somewhere... “We do have some more information for you about the neighbor, Priscilla Flannigan,” said Kathy, joining in the conversation after giving me a dirty look for my joke. “She has had several male visitors. Here’s a list of the men who were at her home during the past five days. As you can see, none of these descriptions even remotely resembles Ralph.” At this point, Kathy and I exchanged glances. We had both come to the conclusion that this young, beautiful woman probably made her living studying ceilings, so to speak. But we admired her taste. All of the men who came to visit her were young, handsome, and virile. It was hard not to

envy her, being romanced on silk sheets by a gorgeous Adonis, as I was sloshing around in the mud and muck and watching my leg being pursued by an ardent mutt that mistook it for a fire hydrant. I always make it a point to give several written docu133

ments to my clients. They seem not to feel they are getting their money’s worth unless they have something tangible in their hands. When a client pays me, she gets everything I have. Of course, I keep a copy, but any lists, any notes, any reports, all get typed up and submitted to the client. There was one case in which my son Anthony was observing a husband’s girlfriend. Before the husband came home, the girlfriend entertained three other men. We put that in the report we gave our client; it was up to her to decide how to use the information. Wanda grabbed the paper out of Kathy’s hands and scanned it. “What about my pictures? Didn’t you take any pictures?” Kathy shrugged. “No, we took no pictures because Ralph was not there. What did you want, a picture of Ralph working away on his job, a picture of a fence and a muddy yard? Surely you are not interested in the other people who visit your neighbor. Let’s respect her privacy a bit.” Shrugging away the minor insult, Wanda stared at Kathy. “Maybe Ralph wore a disguise and you didn’t recognize him. He’s obviously fooled you two, but good,” said Wanda. I couldn't help it, I had to laugh thinking how Ralph would look in a disguise. He would still be walking at a snail’s crawl. His decrepit walk was an outstanding characteristic belonging to Ralph alone. I turned my laugh into a cough, as soon as Wanda turned her basilisk stare on me. “We have both seen Ralph in person in the first place, and no, no disguise could fool us. We are professional, remember,

and know how to see through that sort of thing. We have worn disguises ourselves and can recognize one quickly.” I lost my train of thought here, recollecting some of my favorite disguises. There was the time I followed a college professor, taking a class of his. Iwore a mini-skirt, high heels, and a long, blonde wig. I sported a lot of makeup, chewed 134

gum, and looked like a twenty-year-old. Only a few weeks after that, I went

to the opposite

extreme,

wearing a wig of

short gray curls, walking bent at the shoulders, and speaking in a quavery voice, and pretending to be a sixty-five-year-old. It’s amazing how quickly people will trust a little old lady. I looked at my client. “Besides, you’d be surprised at how few people actually wear disguises. Private investigators do, but not regular people going about their daily lives. That’s something the television shows emphasize, but it’s not so real in true life.” Another cough came out as I started to giggle. The thought of poor old shuffling Ralph disguising himself to go next door was ridiculous and especially so if he did so and then climbed a six-foot fence. Apparently Kathy thought it silly, too. “And, Wanda, why would Ralph wear a disguise just to go next door? Wouldn’t that be a lot of effort just to go forty paces? Does he know that we are watching him?” “No, you said not to let on and I haven’t. I want to catch him red-handed, so of course I haven’t put him on his guard.”

Wanda was disgusted that we would even think such a thing. “So why would he wear a disguise then, in the first place?” Kathy was still trying to reason with Wanda. You'd think she would have learned by now. Wanda stood up and smoothed out her skirt. “I see that this conversation is getting us nowhere. I’m sorry, but I think I have just wasted my time and money with you people. You have been unable to catch Ralph cheating on me when you and I both know that’s what he’s been doing.” I wasn’t about to offer to refund Wanda’s money. We charge for our time, no matter what the outcome of the case.

We cannot force the spouse to cheat in order to please the client. We did a good job, but it’s hard to film something that isn’t happening. I stood up as well. 135

“I’m sorry you’re displeased with our performance. I assure you it has been professional and competent throughout. You don’t want to hear what in fact is the truth. I can only wish you luck in the future and urge you to think about this a little more.” I had made my voice harder than usual, to show that Wanda was not the only one who thought her time had been wasted. Wanda gave the kind of sniff that a movie starlet would give in acting class when instructed to “act disdainful” and left. Kathy and I stared at each other for a few minutes, then cracked up. We were still laughing ten minutes later when Anthony walked into the room. “What’s so funny, ladies?” he wanted to know. We were both too convulsed to say. Finally, Kathy got enough of her breath back to answer him. “Remember our client who saw cheating toilet handles? We couldn’t film them, so she left... pissed off, you might say!” Anthony just shook his head and tweaked his mustache. “Punsters should be pun-ished.” I tried to get a grasp on the situation as I put the notes from my yellow pad into a folder and put it into the filing cabinet. “Thus the famous detective and her faithful companions end yet another case, the Case of the Fence-Hopping Survey.” But the case wasn’t quite over yet. A few weeks later, Audrey Houser, my secretary, brought in a newspaper with a notice circled. It was a wedding announcement, of Wanda Carlson to one Jasper Freemont. In Oklahoma, a divorce is granted within ten days of filing for it. There is a six-month waiting period required prior to remarrying. Many divorced persons marry immediately if they so desire. The former spouse

does have the option of filing a complaint,

but sel-

dom does. Knowing Ralph as we did, we seriously doubted 136

that he would bother to file one against Wanda. Wanda divorced Ralph shortly after our investigation. The light bulbs went on in my brain. It wasn’t Ralph who had been cheating, but Wanda. She had been projecting her own unfaithful behavior to her faithful husband. I was a little chagrined. Some detective I was. Wanda had told me that she taught third grade. Most grade schools are out no later than 3:00 P.M. Even allowing an hour for grading papers and preparing the next day’s assignments, a teacher could be home by 4:30 p.M., or 5:00 P.M. at the latest. Yet Wanda had not returned home until 7:55 P.M. every evening, with the ex-

ception of one. It hadn’t occurred to us to wonder where Wandering

Wanda was for those hours. We are not paid to investigate our clients. In fact, many clients are very nervous and ask us directly whether we “have to” investigate them as well. We always answer no, we only investigate the people we are hired to watch. That normally relieves the clients minds greatly. Everyone has skeletons in the closet. Wanda’s was that she

was cavorting with Jasper. It became clear that we had conducted our fence-hopping survey on the wrong side of the fence. One final note, the touch that made this case so memo-

rable. None of us ever forgot Wanda. I took the wedding announcement and posted it in the bathroom... right over the toilet handle. We think of her at every flush.

137

CHAPTER

7

A Couch Full of Blood “Listen!” said Maria Dowding, holding her finger to her lips to shush me. “Was that a groan?” I laughed and looked at my watch. “It’s only two in the afternoon. Do you suppose we could be interrupting a couple having a matinee of love?” We were standing on the threshold of amotel room, ready to knock. Maria didn’t laugh at my joke. She shushed me again and was very quiet. Then I heard it too. It was a groan, sounding very weak. We

looked

at each

other, then

knocked

on

the door.

The groaning stopped. Maybe my first thought was right and we were interrupting an intimate moment. Maria knocked again. This time, we heard a voice. “Come in...” It sounded weak and thready, but it was a

man’s voice. Rule number one for private investigators is: “Don’t invite danger” (which my son Kent often rewrites as “Don’t be stupid”). Going into a strange house alone might appear to be a stupid thing to do. Neither Maria nor I carried guns and were very aware of the fact that we were two women alone. However,

that does

not

mean

we

were

defenseless.

I am

skilled in Judo and can knock a man out in a matter of seconds or escape being injured by him. In addition, it is well 139

known

that I collect knives, do not fear them, and am

not

afraid to use them. Working as a private investigator can be dangerous (I once had my face knocked in by a woman; we began to fight and required several men to pull us apart finally), but you learn to accept that risks come with the job. The key to staying healthy is distinguishing an acceptable from an unacceptable risk. The foolishly brave, the macho,

don’t remain at the job for very long. Maria was ready to take the chance, her hand on the doorknob. I stopped her. “Maria, don’t be foolish. We don’t know anything abut who or what is in there. Let’s not walk into something we can’t handle,” I said. “But, Paula, that’s a weak voice. It sounds as if someone

needs our help. There are two of us; let’s go help.” I still held my hand over Maria’s on the doorknob, refusing to let her enter the motel. “Not yet.” I raised my voice. “Sir, this is Paula Bolin, a private in-

vestigator. I have another investigator with me.” (I very carefully did not mention that we were both women.) “We have come to take your statement over the accident you witnessed on September 20 of this year.” I thought that perhaps if there were a danger, the man inside would be reassured by knowing who we were and what we wanted. People who know little about private investigators think we should identify ourselves as police. In the first place, we are not, and doing so is illegal. And second, people are less likely to open up to cops than to private investigators. We have learned to identify ourselves as anything but police. All we heard was the same reed-thin voice. “Please come

in. I can’t get up.”

:

Even I had to admit that this sounded genuine. The voice was full of pain. But I was still cautious. “Sir, would you like us to go get help?” Usually, we were careful to have backup waiting. One of my techniques is to 140

have two males out of sight out of the house. We then would use signals, such as a cough or a raised window shade to summon their assistance. Witnesses would often talk more freely with women than with men; hence it was wise to keep the men out of the picture unless they were absolutely necessary. This time, however, it was just Maria and me. There was silence. Maria shot me a look, then pushed

her way past me into the motel. I followed her very slowly, keeping the door open behind us in case we had to get out of there fast. I reminded myself that I had left the address of the motel at my office along with orders to come help us if we did not call in within an hour. That is standard procedure for situations such as this and makes me more willing to take risks I might otherwise not take. We were inside a motel room, number 3 of the Night’s Rest Lodge. It was much like any other eight-dollar-motel room, small, rather dark, with shabby furniture, and pictures

bolted to the walls. I was slightly reassured when I noted how clean and neat the place was. I probably would have turned on my heel and left immediately had the room been dirty or smelly. Maria looked around and called out again. “Where are you?” The voice answered, “Back here...’

?

We walked slowly back into the bedroom, making certain the motel door was kept wide open. I kept looking around me, checking out the doors and windows, seeing how

we could leave in a hurry if we had to. I noted what small pieces of furniture I could heave between me and someone pursuing me, and what breakable objects I could toss at an as-

sailant. Once, when I was beaten rather severely by three men, it was only by tossing a heavy ashtray at one of my as-

saults that I was able to escape. Back in the bedroom, I saw a man lying on the floor. 141

The room was dark, and I could see nothing more than just his outline. I stayed in the doorway, ready to leave quickly should he make any move toward us. It was time to get down to business. I didn’t want to stay here any longer than I absolutely had to. I pulled out my tape recorder and checked to make certain it was working. “Sir, we would like to ask you a few questions—” I began, but didn’t get much more out. Maria let out a loud gasp, and a few gulps. She was much closer to the man than I was. I stared at her, and she turned

and met my eyes. My first thought was that she was ill. She looked pale and nauseated. I started toward her and stopped as I saw what it was that she had seen. “My God, are you hurt?” I knew as soon as I asked the question that it was wholly ridiculous. Of course the man was hurt. He was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed in a pool of blood. His leg was twisted to the side and completely covered with clotted blood. When the man saw us, he tried to move his body to hide what appeared to be a small pool of urine. “How long have you been here? What happened? Have you called a doctor?” Maria’s questions came out quickly. The man was obviously in no condition to answer a lot of questions. I tried to take a more practical approach. By this time, all my fears were allayed. The man was wholly unable to assault anyone. I walked right over to him and looked down. Ray Couch was about forty-eight years old. He had the appearance of someone who had had a very hard life, full of physical labor. He was small and slight, probably only about 120 pounds. It was hard to tell his height as he was lying on the floor, but he struck me as about five-foot-eight. He had

brown hair with gray threads, and the beginnings of a beard. His face was ashen white, probably from loss of blood and the pain. He wore a dark blue work shirt and blue denim pants 142

with one pant leg split up to his thigh, and was barefoot. “Sir, have you called a doctor?” I looked around for a phone and didn’t see one. Mr. Couch only shook his head. “Where is your telephone?” I asked. With an effort, Mr. Couch said, “I have no phone. My boss knows. He’s going to come and take care of me.” “Your boss? Who is that? And when is he coming?” Maria in the meantime had gone into the kitchenette and gotten Mr. Couch a glass of water. She handed it to him. He tried to take a drink, but he couldn’t seem to swallow. I’m

no doctor, but I know enough to realize that means the problem is serious. “Mr. Couch, when is your boss coming? You need to go to the hospital.” Mr. Couch put the glass down, his hand shaking. “He brought me home three days ago when I hurt my leg on the job. He’ll be back. He told me he would.” Maria and I exchanged glances. Her face was white and sickly. Mine probably looked the same way. Right now, all I felt was disgust. Three days! “You have been lying here for three days with no help?” I couldn’t believe it. Mr. Couch seemed to grow a little stronger as he saw that we were interested in him. He pointed at his leg. “Well, I tried to call for help, but I couldn’t get close enough to the window for anyone to hear me.” That made sense. I had noted as we came in that the motel was more than a half mile from the highway. “I fell as I got out of bed and couldn’t move again.” He sat back and caught his breath before going on. “I just had to wait for my boss. You’re the only people who have come by.” He leaned back, exhausted. Maria pulled me aside. “Paula, I’m afraid he’s going to 143

die if we leave him here. What can we do? We can’t just walk away from here.” I bit my lip, a habit Ihave when I’m nervous. “We could call the paramedics, I suppose. Or we could call Mr. Couch’s boss and try to get him to come over here.” Maria scoffed. “Call his boss? His boss knows Mr. Couch is here, and a fat lot of good that’s done. The paramedics might not get here for quite a while. You know how they are, Paula, when it comes to making calls in this part of town. And if they did come, they will just let Mr. Couch lie in the ambulance until the money is paid or they get an insurance number.” Maria had a point. There had been an article in the paper just last week that the paramedics were threatening not to come

to Guthrie, Oklahoma.

There

had been a rash of

prank calls. The paramedics had rushed to the scene, only to find nothing and no one. On a few occasions, the paramedics had been physically assaulted and not allowed to perform their duties. Any call coming from this area, especially from

this particular

motel,

which

had

a bad

reputation,

would be treated as a low-priority call. I looked back at Mr. Couch. His eyes were still closed, and he was breathing very heavily. We couldn't just leave him there. I still wanted to get help. “Maria, I am going to go over to the office and use the phone there. Maybe I can contact Mr. Couch’s boss. It’s worth a try. Mr. Couch, what is your boss’s name and phone number? What is the name of your company?” Mr. Couch shook his head. He seemed to be floating in and out of consciousness. I ran over to the office, but I found

no one there. Since I didn’t have any idea of Mr. Couch’s employer, having a telephone would not have done me much good. I wouldn’t have known whom to call. I knocked on the doors of all eight rooms in the motel, trying to get help, hop-

ing to find someone who knew Mr. Couch. There was no an144

swer at any of the rooms. I ran back to the bloody scene. It was obvious that if anything were going to be done, we would have to do it ourselves. “Mr. Couche” The man opened his eyes. It was clear that he was too far gone to care how we knew his name. He hadn’t even asked us why we were there. Of course, we had identified ourselves as

private investigators, but in most instances, that just elicits a slew of questions. Mr. Couch hadn’t asked anything. “Mr. Couch, we are going to take you to the hospital. Just relax as much as you can. Everything is going to be all right.” I felt a little foolish saying that. Here was a man who had just spent three days with a bloody leg, sitting on the floor of a seedy motel room, in pain and alone. But it seemed to help Mr. Couch. He gave a big sigh and relaxed. I looked at Maria. “What now?” I whispered. “Trusty lifeguard to the rescue,” she hissed back. Lifeguard! That’s right, I had almost forgotten. Maria had been a lifeguard and would know how to lift a heavy body. In fact, when I met her, Maria was wearing a pink bikini and a matching wide-brimmed straw hat. Her long brown hair fell across her shoulders beneath it. I had seen her running to rescue a man who dove into a lake from a tree. Her hat had blown off, but she did not stop to retrieve it, but continued toward the man. His neck was broken and he was paralyzed. I went to the hospital with her and the injured man, and I got to know her. When I heard she was looking for another job, I immediately offered to take her into our firm. Anyone with that presence of mind in an emergency was someone I could use. Maria was easy to train. She was such a good detective now that I had forgotten all her other skills. I looked at her now, competently wrapping a towel bandage around Mr. Couch’s leg. It was good to have someone with me who knew first aid. 145

We carried the man, who was lighter than we had expected, to the car and laid him in the backseat. I thought our troubles were almost over. I figured we would take Mr. Couch to a hospital, give him to the staff, and wash our hands of the situation. I was very wrong. “What do you mean, you won’t admit him!” I almost screamed at the nurse, who didn’t flicker an eyelash. “He’s hurt badly. You have to take him!” “Ma’am, I’ve already explained. This is a private hospital. Patients here have to show proof of insurance or ability to pay before they can be admitted. You say you have no insurance on this man. Are you willing to guarantee his bill?” “No! I don’t know him; he’s not related to me.

He’s just

someone I found while working on a case. But he needs help—” I might as well have saved my breath. The nurse had already turned away from me and to another patient. I went back to Maria, who was in the car with Mr. Couch.

“I can’t believe this! It’s like something from a bad soap opera. I thought hospitals had to help the sick and injured. Here we are, two private investigators, trying to help some-

one we don’t know, and it’s not even our job. The doctors and nurses who took an oath and should be involved don’t give a damn.” I shoved the car into gear and started. “Let’s try another hospital.” We tried another, and then another, and then another.

In three hours, we covered seven hospitals and got the same response everywhere. We began at a hospital in northwest

Oklahoma City and went more than thirty-five miles to the south side of Oklahoma City. Nurse after surly nurse told us that Mr. Couch could not be admitted without proof of insurance. “Paula, what do people without insurance do?” Maria wanted to know. “There must be someplace that treats them.” 146

“They go to the Butcher Shop,” I said, keeping my voice low so Mr. Couch would not hear me. “You know, that awful

hospital on the other side of town. I wouldn’t take a rabid rat there, if you want to know the truth.” From

the backseat,

Mr. Couch’s voice came

weakly, “I

told you; my boss has my insurance.” I ignored him. That boss had done nothing so far, so I wasn't about to waste more time trying to get in touch with him now. “I think I have heard of St. Augustine’s Hospital that treats with Medicare, but it’s at least an hour away from here. And the rumor is that the care there isn’t too hot. Let’s try one more thing. There’s a clinic not far from here. Maybe they can give more first aid, at least.” We drove Mr. Couch to the clinic. A middle-aged doctor there bandaged Mr. Couch’s leg and wrote him three prescriptions. He said very little during the treatment, making it clear he was doing this only to get Maria and me off his back. At that point, I couldn’t have cared less what a doctor thought. All I wanted was to get Mr. Couch some care. He had been through enough. “Thank you, Doctor Puentes,” I said, trying to smile at the curmudgeon. “May we leave the patient here?” Dr. Puentes shook his head. “No, he has no insurance. I

shouldn’t have done as much as I have. Just take him home, get those prescriptions filled, and put him to bed. Don’t worry. His injuries aren’t as bad as they look. He will be fine at home.” Maria and I both were relieved to hear that. Maybe we had overreacted a little bit. Mr. Couch

nodded.

“Home,

I

want to go home.” On the way back to Mr. Couch’s humble abode, we stopped at a grocery store. I purchased a few dollars’ worth of supplies, including orange juice and some canned goods. I wanted to be sure that Mr. Couch had something to eat. I 147

offered to stop to pick up the prescriptions, but he refused. “You ladies can’t pay for me like this. My boss will be here soon. He’ll get all the things I need, the prescriptions and all.” We had our doubts, but we wanted

to believe Mr.

Couch was right. Perhaps something had happened to detain the boss, and he would be by soon. “Just take me home. You’ve already done too much for me.” Back at the motel, Maria and I put Mr. Couch into bed. We cleaned up the room as much as possible, getting rid of the blood and urine. Maria put the food and some water and orange juice right by Mr. Couch’s hand. “Now, you be sure to eat and drink something. And don’t worry, things will be all right.” Mr. Couch nodded. “Thank you, ladies. You’ve been real nice. My boss will take care of me

now.” With

that, he fell

asleep. Back at the office, Maria and I told our colleagues about

the afternoon. Sidney was confused. “Was he a druggie or a drunk? Why was he all alone like that?” I flipped my hair over my shoulder with the back of my hand, then shook my head. “No, he was not drunk. We didn’t

see any signs of alcohol or drugs anywhere. He didn’t even

smoke cigarettes. He didn’t even have a TV set in his cheap motel room with which to contaminate his mind. He seemed like a nice, hard-working man, a poor one who was trying to make ends meet. It was truly a pathetic situation. It was awful thinking of him lying there like that.” Kent shook his head. “What I want to know is what kind of boss lets his employee lie there injured for three days. He knew how severe the injury was, right? You said that the boss was the one who took Mr. Couch home after the injury.” I pulled a yellow pad toward me. “What kind of boss? One who doesn’t deserve a worker as good as Ray Couch. You know, I don’t trust that boss at all. Maria, let’s you and I go

148

back over to Mr. Couch’s tomorrow to check up on him. I want to be sure he had gotten some help.” Maria nodded. “And,” I said, scribbling a note to myself, “I am going to find Mr. Couch an attorney first thing in the morning.” Sidney whistled. “Boy, I'd love to be that attorney. What a sweet Case this is going to be. A man injured on the job, no hospitalization; no accident report either, I bet. This is going to be a good settlement.” Maria joined in. “I wish we could get those awful doctors who refused to look at Mr. Couch in on the suit. They deserve to be sued as well.” I shrugged. “It’s not their fault; they can’t change the hospital rules. But Sidney is right about the lawsuit against the boss and the company.” The conversation turned to other things, to other cases,

but I never stopped thinking about Mr. Couch. He was on my mind all evening as well. I kept wishing that he had a telephone so that I could call and ask how he was doing. A part of me told me to mind my own business, that this was no concern of mine. But inside I knew that I had to follow up. The law firm next attorneys in Oklahoma. man’s compensation, morning. Dallas was a short,

to my office boasted some of the best Dallas James was a specialist in workso I spoke with him early the next

stocky, balding man with bifocal eye-

glasses that emphasized,

rather than hid, his sexy ice-blue

eyes. His glasses slid down his nose as he kept nodding while I gave him the facts. “Paula, this type of thing is more common than you might think. The bosses don’t want to get in trouble with their own bosses for bad safety conditions so they just don’t report the accident. The worker, who is usually poor and uneducated, treats the boss as God. The worker

never questions what the boss says and figures the accident was just bad luck. Well, it seems that your Ray Couch has an 149

excellent case, and I will be glad to take it. Do you think he could come in tomorrow afternoon around two? Will he be well enough to get here?” “I don’t know, Dallas,” I admitted. “I will have to go see

him. I hope so. The doctor who finally fixed him up told us the injuries looked worse than they were. How about if I give you a call?” Dallas nodded. “If he’s too weak, I can go see him. I go to the hospital to see clients all the time; this will be no different. In fact, considering how strong his case appears. I’m sure my office would have no quibble about advancing Mr. Couch money for expenses, prescriptions, and the like. We will certainly get repaid out of the settlement.” I felt much better at hearing Dallas say that. It was clear that he felt the case was a strong one and was interested in taking it on. With an attorney on our side, we would be able

to get the aid he needed in case Ray became worse. I knew that I should go back to my office and take care of some of the mounds of paperwork that had accumulated (as usual) on my desk, but I realized that I would only be sit-

ting there thinking about Ray Couch, not about my work. I stopped back at the office only long enough to ask Maria whether she wanted to go with me. She jumped at the chance, admitting that she too had been sitting there wondering how Mr. Couch was doing. I guess both of us were hoping that some miracle had occurred,

and

that when

we

knocked

on

the motel

door, it

would be opened by Mr. Couch, smiling and doing well. Instead, reality met us. “Mr. Couch? It’s Paula and Maria, the investigators. We’ve come to see how you're doing!” We knocked several times. “Come...in...” The voice was even weaker than before. 150

Maria

and

I exchanged

a look, then

barged

right in.

Completely forgotten were the fears we had had just a day before. We headed back to the bedroom, where Mr. Couch was

lying just as we had put him. He didn’t seem to have moved at all. Maria walked over to the nightstand. “Mr. Couch—Ray—you haven’t eaten a thing! And you

don’t look so well. Are you in pain?” I put my hand on Ray’s forehead. “You’re running a fever. Hasn’t anyone come to help you? I suppose your boss still hasn’t shown up to buy your prescriptions.” It was a measure of how weak Ray was that he didn’t even bother to defend his boss this time. He just shook his head. I turned to Maria. “We are taking Ray to the hospital, and this time they are admitting him whether they want to or not.” My Irish temper was up. “I am going to stand in the middle of the lobby and shout until someone helps this man. I’m sick and tired of his being pushed around like this. Come on!” Maria and I got Ray into the car and drove to the South Memorial Hospital, more than thirty-five miles away. This time, instead of letting Maria stay with Ray in the car, I took them with me into the hospital. Maria and I put Ray down in the middle of the waiting area, bloody leg (it was still leaking and the bandages were a mess) and all. I figured that no hospital would want a wounded man to lie in the middle of the traffic pattern, and I was right. It was only a minute or so before an orderly came with a stretcher. This time I flashed my identification card and offered to stand surety for the debt. Now that I had enlisted Dallas James’s legal services, I was sure that there would be a sufficient settlement to repay any money I had to spend. Yesterday I hadn’t thought the matter was quite so serious, and I was afraid to spend money I might never get back. Today, even if Ididn’t get my money, I was going to get this man help. “Stage one completed,” I said to Maria as we were walk151

ing out to good care. Maria boss right

the car. “Ray is safely in the hospital and getting Now onto stage two.” looked at me. “I think I wouldn’t want to be the now. This is the stage two you’re talking about,

isn’t it, Paula?”

I nodded and honked my horn at someone Iwas cutting off. I almost laughed at the righteous indignation on his face—‘“She cuts me off and has the nerve to honk at me!”— but I was too upset. I wanted to keep my temper flaring for the confrontation I was about to have. “Paula, we can’t even know where Ray worked! Who was his boss? Where are we going?” “When I was registering Ray at the hospital, I picked up his wallet from the desk to get his full name and address. He had a pay stub in it. He worked at Blake Bradford Machinery Company. He confirmed this when I said something to him, and he told me his boss’s name is Joe Jarvis. This Mr. Jarvis is about to get a piece of my mind,” I replied. Maria shook her finger at me. “Now, Paula, remember that we have an attorney on this case. Do you think we should go butting in? We don’t want to say or do anything that will jeopardize the case for Ray in court later on.” I hate it when someone is reasonable, just as I am rarin’ to get up a good head of steam. I opened my mouth, but Maria interrupted. “Let me do the talking, okay? I’m serious, Paula. You are too upset. You may say something you'll regret.” I tried to laugh. “I don’t think I would regret anything I would say or do to that man. Maybe I can find a nice buzz saw nearby and slice off a part of his leg, to let him know what it feels like. Or perhaps there will be a convenient balcony from which I can toss him into a boiling pot of molten metal. There is always the reliable school of hungry piranha. Or maybe...” 152

The rest of the trip was pleasantly taken up with con) cocting bloodthirsty acts of revenge against Mr. Jarvis. By the i time I got to Blake Bradford, I had calmed down somewhat. ) In fact, looking at Mr. Jarvis, who was short and squat, with f more hair on his arms than on his head, I almost broke out

# laughing. All I could do was visualize him in the last torment | I had devised, running naked

down

Main

Street with bees

i and wasps following him and stinging him in some very inopportune places. Maria started the conversation dramatically. In a loud } voice that carried throughout the plant, she declaimed, “Mr. § Jarvis? We are private investigators here to talk to you about } your employee, whom you left lying in a pool of blood.”

Atta girl, Maria! Every employee within earshot was leaning toward us, wanting to hear more. Mr. Jarvis was no fool. He waved them away with his chubby little arms, ushered us into his private office, and shut the door.

“What the hell was that about? And who did you say you ! were?” he asked. Maria and I flashed our ID at him. “Mr. Jarvis, at 2:00 P.M. two days ago, November 12, we went to room 3 of the Night’s Rest Lodge.” Maria was using the technique we often used | with people we were interviewing. We liked to throw facts and figures at them, making them a little intimidated by our staccato, Jack Webb-like directness. It seemed to work with Mr. Jarvis, who was already beginning to sweat. The boss had ) no idea that we had gone to see Mr. Couch in the first place merely as a witness to another action. He believed that we / were here representing Ray in the injury case (as indeed we ) were at this stage) and was justifiably nervous. | _ “There we found your employee, Ray Couch. His leg | had been nearly severed and was still bleeding. He was lying in a puddle of blood and urine. He had been unable to get | any food, and was hungry and severely dehydrated. He was in 153

pain, because his leg had become infected. He had been abandoned by you three days previously. He had been involved in an accident in this plant.” Maria raised her voice and leaned forward. “I want to see the accident report you wrote up.” Maria had done a good job of awing Mr. Jarvis. If he had any sense, he would have just thrown us out of his office. AF ter all, we weren't the police. He had a right to refuse to speak with us. But he was on the defensive now. Instead, he hemmed and hawed for a moment, then gave up before our * glares. He went to the files and began pulling things. Eventually, he did hand us an accident report. Without even reading it, Maria stood up. “T’ll take this, thank you. I hope, for your sake, it is accurate. I will give it to Mr. Couch’s attorney, who will be contacting you real soon.” Mr. Jarvis’s eyes were almost out of his head. “Attorney? Ray didn’t tell me he was going to hire an attorney. What the hell—” Maria wisely didn’t let him continue. “And since you ask,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “Ray is in the hospital. He is being treated, no thanks to you. He could have died, Mr. Jarvis, died. We need your insurance authorization for his treatment. Please sign this form.” Mr. Jarvis looked shell-shocked. I held my breath. This was the point at which a wise man would have refused to sign, would have shown us the door, and said his lawyer would be contacting our lawyer. But Maria raised her voice again and began to babble about all the blood. She had a very distressing way of intoning “BLOOQOOOOOD! BLOOOOOOD!” that made you almost visualize it dripping off the ceiling as you were listening. She also mentioned, not exactly casually, that while Mr. Jarvis was in trouble now, he would be involved in a homicide should Mr. Couch die. Mr. Jarvis drew his hand

| over his forehead, looked around helplessly, and signed on f the dotted line. Maria swooped up the paper, making a grandiose © rustling noise. “Thank you sir. You'll be hearing more from / us soon. | As we left, I turned to face Mr. Jarvis. “Ray is in South ! Memorial Hospital. He is expecting you to come visit him 7 and see how he is doing.” I could tell from the look on Mr. § Jarvis’s face that he had no intention of doing any such thing. \ As events turned out, not only did Mr. Jarvis never go to | the hospital, he fired Ray while he was hospitalized. All that ) was grist for the mill in the lawsuit. Once in the car, I burst out laughing. “Maria, remind a me to bring you along whenever I lose my temper. You did a great job, especially by taking the original accident report from Mr. Jarvis. He didn’t even notice. But he will when we } go to court and he discovers he needs a copy.” -Maria laughed and pretended to make a muscle. “Just call me your enforcer, Paula. Now let’s get back to the hospital. We want to make sure all this paperwork is turned in so that treatment can begin on Ray and so that we don’t get } stuck with the bill.” | I met Maria’s eyes for a moment. “Don’t worry. If the hospital gives me the bill, I'll just have you take it over to Mr. Jarvis. By this time he’s so overwhelmed by you that he’d give ) you a mortgage on his house, afraid that otherwise you would > take it out of his hide!” We were both in a good mood by the time we reached the hospital. And why not? Just yesterday we had helped save | a man who was in pain. Today that same man was resting ' comfortably in the hospital, getting good care in a clean en| vironment. The Bad Guy was being made to pay for the prob) lem and had already been scared into thinking about his

155

responsibilities further. Everything seemed to be going right. We handed the paperwork over to the nurse. She glanced at the patient’s name, then put on a serious expression. “Dr. James C. Beavers is in charge of that case. I know he wanted to talk with you ladies. Just wait over there, and I'll get him for you.” A few minutes

later,

a very handsome,

mature-looking

doctor came scurrying around the corner. It was obvious from his face that the news he was going to give us was bad. My first thought, after all the fuss with getting Ray admitted, was that he was going to be ejected from the hospital as a result of some paperwork snafu. I was about to tell Maria my thoughts, when I realized that no busy doctor would come to tell us something like that. The nurse would have taken care of it. This meant there had to be a more serious physical problem than we had thought. “Ms. Bolin?” The doctor looked at both of us. I nodded. “I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Couch’s condition is very grave. In fact, I will not hide the fact that there is a better than 50-

percent chance he might die.” Die! This was the last thing we had expected. We knew that Ray’s leg was a mess, but he didn’t seem that near death to us. We knew we had to get him to a hospital, but as soon as we got him there, we honestly thought all would be well with him. This was quite a shock for us. “Doctor Beavers, why? He was talking and even could hobble a little bit when we brought him in. I know he was dehydrated, but—”

The doctor sat down and motioned for us to join him on the sofa. “Mr. Couch’s leg was badly infected. The infection has spread throughout the body, to the heart and perhaps the brain. We will give him massive doses of antibiotics, but usually when things get this far, it’s too late.”

We just sat there, stunned. I could feel the tears in my eyes and looked over to see that Maria was already crying. I had to clear my throat several times before I could talk

again. “Uh, Doctor, there must be some hope?” Dr. Beavers continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “And we will have to amputate the leg unless it responds very quickly to treatment. We are going into surgery in just a few minutes. We will, of course, do the best we can, but I want you to be

prepared.” With a few more kind words, Dr. Beavers left. Maria turned to me, her tears dripping down her cheeks. “That poor man. He didn’t seem to have much going for him before, and now he is going to be crippled as well. I wonder how much of this he understands. That poor, dear man.” She looked up as a thought struck her. “Do you realize, Paula, that if we hadn't decided to go question Ray yesterday, he might be dead by now? He would have died all alone in that grungy motel room. God, it’s a good thing we got there. And to think that the case wasn’t all that pressing. We could just as easily have waited a week before questioning him.” I felt myself start to get angry. “I feel sorry for him too, but I tell you one person I feel even more sorry for and that’s that damn boss, Joe Jarvis. How could he just take a severely injured man home and leave him there, not even checking up on him? That’s as good as murder. I am going to call Dallas right away and let him know of this new development. I feel like calling Jarvis too—” I stopped as I saw Maria’s face. “Don’t worry, I won’t. I don’t think I could be coherent enough to have any semblance of conversation with that man. I’m just going to call Dallas—” I broke off and went to the telephone. Maria and I waited around the hospital for over an hour. We talked quite a bit about who would take care of Ray once he got out of the hospital, if he ever got out. In just two days,

157

we felt as if the man had become family. I wanted to take him back to my house and wait on him myself. Maria felt the same way. We talked about Ray’s relatives, wondering whom we should contact. Ray had told us that he had only a mother, but they hadn’t spoken in ten years and he had no idea where she was living. Ray’s only friend was an old wino who lived at the motel. We never did manage to contact him throughout the whole case. We talked and talked and talked,

mostly about how much we hoped the doctor was wrong and

Ray would be all right. Maria said, “Paula, Ray’s strong. He wouldn’t have sur-

vived this long if he weren’t.” I smiled. “That’s right. It was meant to be that we would find him and that things would turn out all right. I’m sure God wouldn’t let us get involved only when it was too late. You’re right, everything will be fine.” The nurse then came out and told us that the operation was going well, but it would take quite a bit longer. “Go home and get some rest. We promise to call you as soon as the surgery 1s over.” I took Maria home, then went back to my place. As I showered and prepared for sleep I knew wouldn’t come, I

kept saying little prayers for Ray. In between, I’m afraid I did a lot of complaining about Mr. Jarvis, at the hospitals that didn’t admit Ray yesterday, and even at myself for not insisting that the hospitals take him and to hell with their insurance regulations. I came up with a mantra of sorts that I kept repeating over and over to myself: He has to live; he’s been through too much. He has to live; he’s been through too much. I kept thinking what a cruel joke it would be for Ray to have gone through all that pain for three days, only to die when he finally got to a hospital. At 11:00 p.m. the phone rang. I almost killed myself getting to it with a new land-speed record. 158

“Hello? Hello?” It was Maria. “I can’t sleep, can you? I keep thinking about poor, dear Ray.” I wanted to scream. “Maria, get off the line! I have to

keep this open there—ah,

for the hospital. We should

have stayed

talk to you later!” I positively slammed down the

telephone. It was a nerve-racking hour before it rang again. “Hello?” I noticed that my stomach was all in knots. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the news. “Ms. Paula Bolin? This is South Memorial Hospital calling with good news.” What a wonderful technique this nurse had. She cut the cackle and got right to the chase. Now I could relax enough to hear the details. “Ray Couch has been through surgery better than anyone expected. Not only will he survive, but it looks as if his leg can be saved. There are no guarantees, but all is well so far.” I don’t remember thanking the nurse or saying goodbye. In fact, Iwas probably rude and just hung up on her. But I couldn’t wait to give the news to Maria. I dialed her number right away. I didn’t even let her get a hello out of her mouth before I gave her the good news. Then the two of us stayed on the line for over an hour, crying and laughing and rehashing all the events. By the time I finished talking with Maria and fixed myself some hot chocolate and relaxed, it was dawn. I figured that going to bed would be a waste of time, so I got ready for work. The next day went quickly. A call to the hospital elicited the information that Ray would not be allowed visitors for at least three days, but that the leg was still looking good. As soon as I got off that call, I made another, this one to Dallas.

He was delighted to hear that Ray was doing so well and said 159

that he had already begun assembling documents for the civil suit. A third call was to Mr. Jarvis. I couldn’t help calling, but the phone was answered by someone else who asked my name, then said Mr. Jarvis was out of the office for the day. It

was probably a lie, but I didn’t care. I left the message about Ray’s condition and hung up. Finally, the day came when Ray could have visitors. I went up to see him, and hardly recognized him. He was all cleaned up, almost glowing. His scraggly beard was gone, and he looked younger than he had before. When I walked into his room, carrying a bouquet of daisies, he lit up. “Paula! Thanks to you and Maria, I’m gonna be okay! Thanks to you and Maria!” Ray spent quite a bit of time thanking me and saying how much Maria and I had helped him. Then he asked about his boss, whether Mr. Jarvis had come to the hospital or even called. Ray seemed to mind being ignored more than being hurt. I explained to Ray about the lawsuit and how he should have nothing to do with Mr. Jarvis until the two met in court. I wanted to change the subject, as Ray looked so depressed. “So, tell me, how are they treating you? Are you chasing after the nurses yet?” I teased. Ray smiled. “No, not yet. But I’m okay. I’m just a little bored, that’s all. I wish I had a television, but they charge you for it, a rental charge every day, and I can’t afford that. So I just lie here and think.” I frowned, then pushed my hair back over my shoulders with the back of my hand. An idea struck me. “Ray, there’s no need for that. I have an extra TV at home that no one uses. Pll just bring it in and plug it in for you. It has a remote control, so you can watch it to your heart’s content.” The next day, I brought in the television. From the moment I plugged it in, Ray was entranced. He had not had a 160

TV in his motel room, and I gather watching one was quite a luxury for him. When I left, he was in the middle of a “Dy-

nasty” rerun, gawking at the mansion and the beautiful people. I don’t think he even noticed me leave. I expected to hear the television when I returned the next morning, but Ray was lying in his bed, looking out the window. The television was silent. “Good morning, Ray, how are you feeling today?” I found I was using that disgustingly cheerful voice that people always affect in a hospital. I couldn’t help myself. Ray turned to me. “I can’t watch TV no more.” “Why not? Too exciting for you?” I was still teasing. “No, the nurse unplugged it. She said that this TV wasn’t safe, that if I want to watch TV, I have to rent one from the

hospital.” “What? That’s the stupidest thing I have ever heard. It’s obvious that the hospital is simply trying to gouge you for two dollars more a day. We’ll see about this!” I put on the same face that I had worn to go see Kent’s teacher when she told me I had to buy a case of candy bars at a dollar each that Kent was supposed to sell but hadn’t. (As it turns out, the teacher in this case was right. I stormed down to the school, ready to do battle, only to be shown the candy bars. My voracious son had taken a huge bite out of each one! I paid.) I nearly collided in the hall with a nurse. Grabbing her arm, I explained my problem. Her response was predictable: Rental TVs were hospital policy. I decided the best way to handle this was to go to the top. I didn’t even stop to think that two dollars a day was an insignificant sum, especially in terms of what the overall hospital bill was to be. I was just fuming that some officious nurse or orderly would actually unplug the TV of aman too weak to get up and plug it back in. I found the hospital administrator, guarded by a gorgon secretary. I flashed my private investigator’s badge at her and 161

told her I had to see the administrator “in reference to a lawsuit.” I suppose that was stretching the truth a bit, but there was going to be a lawsuit soon, and I was a private investigator, so I could live with the lie. Besides, it got quick results. I

was in the administrator’s office in no time flat. I explained the problem. Naturally, the administrator seemed a little befuddled. “You’re suing the hospital over a two-dollar-a-day television rental fee?” “No, sir, lam not. The hospital will be involved in a lawsuit over its discriminatory admission practices and its poor standards.” I felt a little guilty throwing that last bit in, as Ray had received truly excellent care. I took a page from Maria’s book and interrupted the administrator before he could speak again and sort things out. “But perhaps the lawsuit is not the issue. That will be settled in court. You're right; a television is a small thing.” Just as the administrator,

a hapless fellow

named

Edward

Larson,

re-

laxed, I hit him with my zinger. “I guess this policy is more a matter of public relations on how you treat your patients. When I talk to the newspapers about this, I will be very careful to distinguish the quality of care from the quality of caring. Your doctors and nurses may do their duties; it’s how the hospital treats the emotional well-being of the patients that has me upset. That will make interesting reading, don’t you think?” Mr. Larson started to bluster. I didn’t say a word, just let him run on and on until he finally ran down. He turned out to be a good sport after all. He gave me an ear-to-ear grin, then said, “You certainly know how to play this game. The hospital does not want any negative publicity. I think we may have to reevaluate this policy in the future. For right now— and mind you, I am not admitting the policy is wrong, only making an exception in your friend’s case—I see no reason 162

that your television should not be used. I’ll so inform my staff.” He made a note on a scratch pad, then stood up. I rose too and shook his hand, “Ray and I thank you for

your time and consideration.” As I left, I thought I saw Mr. Larson give me a wink...but it might have been just a figment of my imagination. The next few weeks, my visits to Ray were punctuated by story lines of every soap opera and sitcom on television. I got very ured of hearing about them, but I was thrilled to see Ray getting well so quickly. He was cheerful and content and had even put on a few much-needed pounds. Finally, the day came when I could take him home. Ray chattered all the way there, talking about how he was going to get a new job (he was not reinstated after being fired by Blake Bradford Company) and begin saving for a television set of his own. “Do you know that with cable I can even get sports twenty-four hours a day?” When

Ray and I walked back into his motel room, we

had markedly different reactions. To Ray, this place was home and he was delighted to be back. All I could see was a seedy, dark, dingy motel room without a telephone or televi-

sion. I resolved to change that and went back out to the car. When I carried the television inside, Ray protested. “Paula, you forgot. You lent that to me; it’s yours,” he said. “I didn’t forget, Ray. I want you to have it.” I set it up on a table across from the sofa and put the remote-control device on a sofa cushion, next to Ray. He picked it up and caressed it immediately, but felt obliged to protest again. “T can’t let you do that. You’ve already done a lot for I gave him a big smile. “You know, you'll be doing me a favor.” He looked up hopefully. “I have three TV sets and can’t watch them all. And as you know, TV sets go bad if they 163

are left idle for too long. I could ruin this set if Ikept it any longer.” Ray was torn. He wanted to believe me, but he had a sixth sense that I was pulling his leg. Finally, he settled for an embarrassed shrug and turned on the television. From that moment

on, I lost him. We chatted for a few more

minutes,

but he was absorbed in another rerun of “Mission: Impossible.” Finally, I reached over and turned off the television. It was time for good-bye. When I left, ten minutes later, I was glowing inside. Ray — had thanked me repeatedly and given me a big hug. I felt good about myself and even better about Ray’s chances for the future. Looking at him now, as excited with his new present as a child at Christmas, it didn’t seem possible that only a month ago Maria and | had entered this motel room to find him in a pool of blood, nearer death than any of us knew.

There’s one final note to this story. The lawsuit did go forward. Dallas did a wonderful job of representing Ray and got him a sizable settlement. Ray used the money to buy a spread of land in west Kansas. Ray was born there and his only living relative, his mother (whom we found for him), still lives there. Ray was able to fulfill his dream of having a place of his own and of caring for his mother in her old age. He hadn’t seen his mother in over ten years, both from a lack of funds to get together and from a sense of embarrassment at not being able to help her financially. Now mother and son are closer and happier than ever. The hospitals settled out of court for a small amount. Our attorney told us that the hospitals were within their legal rights to refuse Ray the first time we had brought him around, but the hospital attorneys were willing to make a small settlement to avoid any negative publicity and time in court. The brunt of the judgment fell on the shoulders of our 164

old friend, Joe Jarvis. He was fired from his job for “gross incompetence.” The district attorney considered filing a charge of criminal negligence against him for his actions in deserting an obviously seriously injured man but ultimately decided against it. Jarvis’s company had to pay over seventyfive thousand dollars and blackballed Jarvis in the industry as a result. The last we heard, Mr. Jarvis was working at a 7-11 store. I keep stopping at every 7-11 I can find; one day, I hope to run into that great humanitarian again. And this time, I won't have either a lawsuit or my colleague Maria to keep me from telling him what I think of a man who would leave a loyal worker in pain on a couch full of blood.

165

CHAPTER 8

Birds in the Bush, Bats in the Belfry “Mutilated animals on your front lawn!” I could hear my voice rising towards a screech as I repeated what the quiet man seated across the desk from me had said. My mind was full of obscenely disgusting images of decapitated horses, eviscerated dogs, and the tattered and pathetic remains of what had been a cat or two. The picture was Hieronymous Bosch meets Alfred Hitchcock on a bad day. I could almost feel the breeze, Mr. Gentry was nodding so quickly. “That’s right, dead animals. Lots of them. Every morning I wake up and find another bloody mess on my front lawn.” I shuddered as I thought of walking out to pick up the paper, all unsuspecting, and finding a bloody carcass. Ugh. “Tell me please exactly what kinds of animals you have found?” I said, not quite certain I wanted to hear the answer. As the owner of several spoiled-rotten dogs myself, I didn’t want to hear about any dog being mistreated. And

“Well, there have been birds, you know, like sparrows. mice, lots of mice.” Mr. Gentry nodded again, several

times. “Lots of birds and mice. Every day.” I took a deep breath and felt my stomach calm down. “Birds and mice? Is that all? There were no, say, larger animals, like a dog or a cat?” 167

For a moment | thought Mr. Gentry was going to be a typical client, exaggerating the problem in order to enlist my sympathy and make his case seem more important and spectacular than it really was. However, he resisted the temptation. That was encouraging, showing me that this man was probably essentially truthful. “No, no, all I have seen are mice and birds. So far.” Mr.

Gentry leaned back in the armchair and looked at me as if I could solve his problem immediately. I leaned back as well and looked at the man who wanted to hire my investigative services. Mr. Gentry was, he said, seventy-three years old, but he looked even older. He was frail,

looking somewhat like a Hollywood caricature of a crotchety old shopkeeper. When he walked in, I half-expected him to put an ear trumpet to his ear and shout at me to “Speak up and stop wasting my time, young woman!” However, Mr. Gentry was anything but crotchety. He

seemed a nice, gentle man, plain and simple, with no airs about him. He was neat and clean and pleasant. I saw hundreds of older men like him every week at the shopping malls and in the parks. I tried to bring some reality to this case, aware of a feeling of letdown. It wasn’t that I wanted a case full of mutilated horses, mind you, just that a lawn of dead sparrows, probably brought by cats, wasn’t going to be challenging my detective skills too severely. “Have you considered that perhaps cats have brought these animals to your lawn? They often do that, bringing their ‘trophies’ back to their,masters, or to someone they like. It seems obscene to us, but the cats mean it as a compliment.” I smiled at Mr. Gentry. Mr. Gentry shook his head. “NO! I don’t have no cats. And none of the cats around the place would do that. I tell you, it’s a conspiracy among my neighbors.” He leaned for168

ward and lowered his voice, “My neighbors all hate me. They are trying to drive me out of the neighborhood.” I started to say something, but Mr. Gentry interrupted me. “The bodies are always put on my lawn in the middle of the night, while I’m asleep! What do you think of that! Don’t that prove that someone is out to get me?” In private investigative work, there is often a fine balance between trusting your instincts and keeping an open mind. My instincts were telling me that this was a crazy, or at least eccentric, old man, harmless but time-wasting. I wanted to get him out of my office and get back to work. On the other hand, I wanted to be fair. Who knows? Perhaps this man really was harassed by his neighbors. It had happened before. I tried to put myself in his place and think how frustrated I would be if no one believed my own story. This man’s story reminded me of one of my own. Mary, who was a neighbor of mine, suffered from mental problems.

She would call bars and pool halls, leaving my phone number and name with the establishment, requesting men to call. She notified preachers from various denominations to visit me about my emotional problems (which existed only in her mind), and she called florists telling them to deliver flowers to me, using my name for the charges. She called my husband, my brother, my friend’s husbands, and told each one

that she was pregnant with his baby and wanted financial compensation. When I later discussed the situation with my own mother, she believed it was all a figment of my imagination. I found out by overhearing a conversation she had with my eldest son, Anthony. They discussed that I must have gone over the line because it was impossible for anyone to do all the things I said Mary was doing. The harassment by Mary went on for several years, until Mary drove her car head-on into oncoming traffic and killed not only herself, but four other 169

elderly ladies. Remembering that, I began to realize that weird situations can be real. With a sigh, I pulled my yellow pad closer to me and began to write. “Okay, I believe you,” I said. I learned long ago that to

many of my clients, being believed was even more important than getting action. Sometimes, private investigation work is a cross between psychiatric counseling and being a Mother Confessor. “So let’s examine the list of suspects.” As I could have predicted, Mr. Gentry liked the sound of that. Using professional jargon always makes a client feel that I am taking his or her case seriously, that I know what I am doing and am ready to swing into action. “I know the head suspect. I know who it probably is.” Mr. Gentry was almost bouncing on his seat, a funny action for an

old man. “There’s a man living right across the street from me. He is always staring at me, looking at me funny. And most important of all, there’s a large drainage ditch right next to his house.” I looked up and let my confusion show on my face. “A large drainage ditch, Mr. Gentry?” “You don’t get it? That’s where the dead animals are. Some animals fall in there, and he gets them. Others he kills himself and tosses into the ditch until nighttime. Then he comes over and throws them on my lawn. He’s trying to get me out! He hates me.” By now my vow to be open-minded was vanishing quickly. It was becoming more and more apparent that Mr. Gentry had a mental or emotional problem. I am no psychoanalyst, but anyone could tell that the man thought he was being persecuted. The terminology he used, the way he thought he was being watched, all these were classic. Anyone who watched any television at all could see the symptoms. However,

I had no desire to hurt Mr. Gentry’s feelings.

He seemed a very nice man. And the client deserves the best. 170

I have worked with clients I thought were a little crazy, with clients

who

were

rude,

with

clients who

were

downright

mean. As long as the client is honest and straightforward with me to the best of his or her ability, ll do my best to help. I reminded myself of that right now. “T'll be glad to take your case, Mr. Gentry,” I said, watching him closely. Most clients look relieved at this point. (I knew I must use caution in dealing with this man or else he would add me to his list of suspects. My words and actions must be carefully prepared in order to convince Mr. Gentry I would never betray him by joining forces with the other side.) Gentry looked merely satisfied, as if he hadn’t had any doubt about it at all. “I hope to be able to clear it up in a few days. Let’s begin with a retainer fee of five hundred dollars, and Ill take the hourly fee out of that. IfI find that it will take more time, we’ll discuss it later.”

Mr. Gentry whipped his head back as if he had been slapped. “FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS! You’re going to get five hundred dollars just for looking at this? I already told you who the guilty man is. You just gotta get proof, that’s all.”

I just looked at Mr. Gentry, not saying a word. I had already cut my normal fee by two-thirds, since it was obvious there was going to be very little to do other than some handholding and reassuring. “I... 1 ain’t got that kinda money.” Mr. Gentry hung his head. I looked at my prospective client more closely. His clothes, although clean and pressed, were very old and threadbare. He wore no jewelry, and his hair looked as if it had been cut at home. Now I was in a dilemma. I didn’t really mind losing the money on the case. That wasn’t the point. Everyone in a service industry does a little pro bono work, charitable work. You don’t get into private investigation expecting to have only Rockefellers for clients and to collect rd

huge fees from everyone who walks in the door. Every private investigator I know has taken many cases for only token compensation. In fact, I was kicking myself a little bit for having asked for five hundred dollars up front. I should have looked more closely at Mr. Gentry and seen that to him, five hundred might as well be five million. My dilemma was how to get out of this without wounding Mr. Gentry’s pride. I shook my head. “My mistake. I was charging you the corporate rate, not the private individual rate. I should have

said, the fee is fifty dollars. How about that?” Mr. Gentry looked at the floor. He refused to meet my eyes. I could hardly hear his answer, as he was chewing on the side of his finger. “No. I have only Social Security, and my wife’s got cancer.” I’ve had clients give me all sorts of excuses as they demand that I lower my fee. I’ve heard the common and boring, like: “You expect me to give you the money I need to use for my vacation this spring!” to the guilt-inducing: “You want me to give you all the money I have to buy groceries for the children and milk for the baby!” to the rather creative: “I was saving this money to buy my third daughter a brand-new sports car for her wedding. I gave my other two daughters new sports cars when they got married. If I give you this money, I will have to buy a cheap used car, and my daughter will make my life miserable for the next twenty years!” But Mr. Gentry was not trying to make an excuse or drive the price down. I believed him when he said that he just didn’t have the money. What could I do now? “Mr. Gentry, do you know what the price of fish is in the supermarket these days?” I asked. Mr. Gentry looked up from the floor and stared at me. He probably thought I had lost my mind. What did the price of fish have to do with his poverty and his wife’s cancer? “Do your” I persisted.

He shook his head. “Well, I do. I love fish, especially fresh fish, and fresh fish

costs a fortune. It’s about twelve dollars a pound (I exaggerated just a tiny bit) these days. I'll tell you what. I noticed when you walked in here that you had a fishing lure tucked into the hatband of your hat.” Mr. Gentry looked at his hat as if he had never seen it before. Then he gave me a huge grin. It was obvious that he was impressed with my detective’s powers of observation. Actually, I wouldn’t admit it to him, but I hadn’t noticed the lure

until just a few moments before. I was thinking desperately of what Mr. Gentry could trade for my services, or what he could do for me. I caught sight of the hat he held in his hand and came up with my brainstorm. “Yeah, I do a little bit of fishin’. I’m good too,” boasted

Mr. Gentry. “You want me to catch you some fish, is that it? Be glad to. And they'll be fresh, too. I'll catch ’em, then clean

“em and give ’em to you that same day.” He looked pleased that he could do something for me. Then he got serious. “How much fish do you want?” I stifled a laugh. It seems that Mr. Gentry was afraid that I was going to push him into indentured servitude, that he thought I would make him my personal fisherman for the rest of his life! It was reassurance time. “At twelve dollars a pound, I need a little over four pounds of fish to meet my fee. Does that seem fair to you?” I pretended to be doing calculations on my trusty yellow pad. “Bring me four pounds of fish for your debt.” Mr. Gentry seemed pleased. “Okay, that’s a deal. You got yourself a deal, lady.” He nodded and waited for me to say something. “Then it’s settled. I'll go to work immediately and call you as soon as I know something.” He put on his hat, and I watched him adjust it with both hands. Vs

“Thank you, Ms. Bolin. You won’t be sorry ’cause you'll see what I’m tellin’ you is the truth.” I stood up and walked around my desk. He rose from his chair and we shook hands, then I ushered him out the door.

Anthony came in while I was jotting down a list of things to do on Mr. Gentry’s case. “Hi, Mom! Did any beautiful chicks call for me while I was out? For instance: Teresa, Tammy, Vicki, Audry, Cindy, Christie, or Belinda?”

“Beautiful? Ha! The only female who even asked about you came in a few minutes ago, but she resembled an animal.

She said her name was Lassie or something similar.” I teased my oldest son. Then I picked up ten telephone messages from my desk and handed them to him. Although older than Kent, Anthony’s popularity with girls seems to prove he’s equally as handsome. His thick dark hair, dark skin, and flashing dark blue eyes with long black eyelashes are all features I’ve envied. My three sons got their good looks from their father and although they resemble each other, Anthony is the one who is different. Generally he is a serious thinker, less noisy and a great listener. One time when I asked why he wasn’t as talkative as his brothers, he smiled. “Mom, this is how I believe it is: A man cannot possibly learn very much with his mouth open all the time.” I had to think on that one for a while, knowing that I too have been guilty of talking more than necessary. Anthony had his own strategy and believes in doing a job properly the first time he makes the attempt. His reason is quite simple he told me. “I'd rather do it right the first time than to have to do the job twice.” He is right. Any job becomes less time-consuming and less costly when it is done right the first time. Anthony used his expert strategy on the first case he ever worked. He was only twelve years of age at the time. 174

There were no requirements in regard to age for private investigators in Oklahoma. They were not licensed, as there was no licensing in the state. It was first enacted by the cities of Oklahoma City and Tulsa. Any person who had been practicing as an investigator when licensing was enacted by the cities fell under the “grandfather clause,” and therefore was not required to do any more than purchase a license (or ID card). There actually was no license until the state of Oklahoma finally made it a requirement. It was beneficial to my agency to be able to use the services of my three sons prior to their eighteenth birthdays. Their efforts paid off handsomely. At age twelve, Anthony accompanied me to a lake hundreds of miles from Oklahoma City, where we had followed a cheating husband, his girlfriend, and her two children. Our job was to prove that the couple were staying together, by obtaining photographs of them at their campsite. We encountered a slight problem when we discovered that the girlfriend spent most of her time inside the tent. In order to photograph her with her lover, she would have to be lured outside. That’s when we utilized Anthony and his famous strategy. He carried with him an Instamatic camera. While near the couple’s campsite, Anthony pretended he’d just received the camera as a birthday present, but he was unsure how to operate it. Becoming friendly with the cheating husband, he was able to ask the man to show him how to use the camera. As a reward for his being nice enough to teach him about the camera, Anthony offered to take the man’s picture with his wife beside him. Anthony had been careful to call the girlfriend “wife” to avoid arousing suspicion. Anthony was delighted when the husband beckoned his girlfriend to come outside where the couple embraced and kissed, while Anthony snapped several photographs. It was Anthony’s pictures that won our case for the wife in court. Anthony was now nineteen years old. I watched him 175

beaming as he pored over his telephone messages and thought how many years had passed since he’d worked his first case. Hundreds

of cases later, Anthony was still doing a

fantastic job. A few things had changed; mostly that now since he was older, girls had become a major part of his young life. Girls called him Tony, while I still referred to him as Anthony. I watched him smiling as he read each message and, placing them in the order of their importance, set them down on the desk. He smiled and looked up at me. “Am I free to go or do we have some vital case that requires my ‘expert’ touch?” asked Anthony. Ignoring his first remark, I began teasing again. “Well, you know how lotteries work, don’t you—” I covered my mouth with my hand to stifle a giggle. He looked puzzled. “What does a lottery have to do with whether I work or play?” “Well, this morning your number was drawn—you work today.” I couldn’t help myself, I burst out laughing. Anthony gave me a smirk. “Oh, darn! When will I get a chance to return these phone calls to the foxiest of foxes?” He thumbed through his messages again. I just smiled at him. “Anthony, are all girls pretty to you?” I pretended to be serious. He made a grunting sound. “Mom—” He looked at me as if he were thinking, “My mom has to be from the Stone Age.” He shook his head. “Sure, all girls are pretty.” He turned away and stared at the wall. When he looked back, he had a look in his eyes that told

me he was going to get even for all my teasing. “Yeah, Mom, all girls are pretty. But some of them—just—barely are.” He burst out laughing. This time I smirked. Ignoring his remark, I assumed my professional pose. “All right, Number-One Son, let’s dispense with the girl talk and get down to some serious business.” I picked up my pen 176

and pulled my yellow pad toward me. I told Anthony all I knew about the Gentry case and asked for his input. After a twenty-minute discussion of the facts, we decided to go over to the property this afternoon. At 1:30 P.M., we pulled up in front of Mr. Gentry’s house. It was small, but appeared to have been kept up over the years. It was obvious from the neatness of the shrubbery and lawn that Mr. Gentry was, indeed, a gardener. Everything was trimmed neatly. We parked the car near the curb, got out, and strolled

around, looking over the area. Anthony went around back while I examined

the front side. A few minutes later, I saw

Anthony again. He waved at me. “Have you found any dead animals yet?” He asked the question with a serious look on his face. Anthony ducked to keep from bumping into a tree limb that was hanging low. “Are you sure we’re at the right house?” Then he lowered his voice. “There’s nothing dead around here except the neighborhood.” We both chuckled. He dug his heel into the ground. “I don’t know how long it’s been dead, butI like the way it’s laid out.” I ignored him for the second time. Anthony chuckled and shooed a fly that was buzzing around his ear. I looked around discreetly. “We’re at the right place, all right. That’s Mr. Gentry peeking out from behind the bedroom curtains.” Anthony pretended to look at something on the ground so he could casually peer at Mr. Gentry from behind his sunglasses. Then he looked up at me and smiled. “Mom, I'd better check out the drainage ditch and take measurements and examine any footprints I find. Since it rained yesterday, it should simplify the matter. Any tracks I find will be fresh.” He began walking toward the ditch. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, I gestured with my hand. “Okay, Anthony. While you're SEs

doing that, I’ll talk to Reverend Brown. Let’s meet back here in a few minutes.” I turned around and walked toward the preacher’s home. I knocked on the door and while I waited for an answer,

I tried to imagine what kind of person would throw dead animals on another’s lawn. Remembering Mr. Gentry’s remark about the preacher being the “prime suspect,” I found it difficult to believe someone like him could commit such bizarre acts. I glanced at Anthony traipsing back and forth along the ditch at the moment the door to Reverend Brown's house opened. “Hello! the cheerful voice said. Standing before me was a very handsome, elderly gentleman (who did not look like a head suspect to me). He wore a freshly starched and clean white shirt, a tie, and a pair

of stiffly pressed black slacks, complete with belt. His snow white hair matched his slightly bushy eyebrows, and his eyes were like ice-blue magnets. Standing about five-foot-ten, he couldn’t have weighed more than 165 pounds. I thought he was probably dressed that way because he was going somewhere, but before I could ask, he interrupted.

“What seems

to be the problem?” “Oh, nothing—I mean—” I was stammering. Then I gained control of myself. “Were you just leaving?” I smiled and looked him over from head to toe. He seemed to sense why I was asking. “No, no. Oh, the way I’m dressed?” He looked down at himself. “Oh, I dress like this all the time. I’m a preacher and I have always made it a practice to be prepared to receive guests at any time.” That seemed a nice habit to form. “Oh, sure I understand. How nice. More of us should heed your example.” It was time to identify myself and tell him why I came to see him. “Well, sir, 'm Paula Bolin.” I flipped open my wallet ex178

posing my ID card and badge. Then Ijust stood there thinking I’d made a mistake in wanting to question him in the first place. He had a startled expression on his face as he gazed at my identification. . “What’s the matter? Did someone pass away?” He spoke with a very polite and soft voice. I stared at him. “No, no, nothing like that.” I tried to remember why I was there and ignore the appearance and kindness of this obviously devout and kind man. I decided to strike my serious professional stance and get on with the business at hand. “Reverend Brown, I’ll get right to the point. I’m investigating an alleged series of dead animal sightings on Mr. Elmer Gentry’s property. He’s a neighbor of yours. Do you know him? Do you know anything about who would be killing animals and scattering their remains on his lawn?” I took a deep breath, then let it all out. “Can you tell me anything about it?” Reverend Brown squinted as though deep in thought. “Sure, I know Mr. Gentry. Fine fellow. He lives right there.” He pointed across the street. “But I have no idea who would do a thing like that, and I haven’t seen anything like what you have described.” He looked down and shook his head. “I can’t imagine—but I did see one thing.” He paused, then continued. “Elmer—Mr. Gentry came over one day and asked me to go look at something on his lawn. It was a baby bird, and it was dead. Now that was probably two months ago.” He looked off as though trying to recall the exact date. “Yes, it was about two months ago. I don’t know how it got there, but I suppose

it just died. That happens, you know,

when a baby bird isn’t strong mother. That’s all I know—” I interrupted him. “What front of your house?” I pointed ever seen dead animals in it?” 179

and gets separated from its about the drainage ditch in toward the ditch. “Have you We both looked toward the

ditch. Reverend Brown began walking slowly toward it. He motioned and I followed him. “See, there’s never much water in there. It rained yesterday and, as you can see there, not more than a couple of

inches of water in there now.” He kept walking. “Look closely and you will see that the grass grows all the way down into the ditch and up on the other side.” He waved his hand back and forth. “I keep the grass mowed short to make it look nicer. I consider it an extension of my lawn and treat it the same.” It was the neatest and best kept ditch I had ever seen. Once again my mind wandered, and I began to suspect my client may have cobwebs in his brain. “During your cleanup of the ditch, have you ever seen any animal in there? Birds, mice, or anything dead?” Mr. Gentry shook his head. “Never.” Then he laughed. “And I hope I never do.” I laughed, thanked him for his time, and walked over to meet Anthony. By 4:00 p.m., Anthony and I were back in the office. He brought each of us a soft drink and set them on my desk, remembering to put a straw in mine. “Here you go, Mom! Just the way you like it.” He smiled at me. “Thank you, dear.” I took a sip of the nice cold liquid, then began stirring it with my straw. “Well, what do you think, Anthony?” I snorted. I should have known better than to ask Anthony a direct question. He always gives me a direct answer. “IT think Mr. Gentry is batty. That’s what I think. How about you, Mom?”

He took a drink of his soda, then looked

up at me. ‘ “Good investigators gather facts first, then make judgments later,” | reminded my son. Then I smiled at him. “Speaking of facts, Pl tell you what I learned today—” he took a big gulp of his soda, “—while I was searching the ditch, I found nothing. There were a few footprints near Mr. 180

Gentry’s house.” He leaned back in his chair and tweaked his mustache.

“The prints matched Mr. Gentry’s, his wife’s, and

the paper boy’s. Some were tennis shoe prints and Mr. Gentry said the paper boy wears tennis shoes. There were no more prints.” Anthony gripped the arms of his chair. “Oh, yes, and one other thing. Mr. Gentry showed me his prized dead bird. He kept it. Yukk!” He made a grimacing face. “It was a scrawny, tattered, matted, and decomposed baby bird. It was obviously too small to survive. There were no markings to indicate it had been killed.” He relaxed his grip on the chair. He leaned forward. “You know I asked Mr. Gentry where he kept the other dead animals he’d found and guess what he said?” He smiled at me. “He showed those to you, also?” I joked. Anthony ignored my question. “Here are his exact words:

“There

ain’t no more;

that’s all there

is. Ain’t one

enough?’ So what do you think of that, Mom?” “Oh, my gosh!” I was beginning to agree with Anthony. Our client is batty. He seemed so nice, and I thought he was being honest with me because he’s told me that he’d found only dead birds and mice. Where were the mice? Now he was saying that there was only one dead bird. I flipped my hair back over my shoulder with the back of my left hand. “Pll have Audrey call Mr. Gentry and set up an appointment. It’s time for a showdown with my client.” I shook my head and stared at Anthony. “Good! I have girls to call and places to go, so I will see you later, Mom. Okay?” He stood up and waited for me to say something. . “Go on! There’s no need for you to stay any longer.” I barely got the words out before he was gone. I sat there trying to analyze why I had taken Mr. Gentry’s case in the first place. There was no money to be gained, and there truly 181

wasn’t a good reason that I could come up with. I’d wasted the services of two good investigators to find out that our client had bats in his belfry. I consoled myself with the realization that I didn’t waste as much money using Anthony on the case, as I would have wasted by using another investigator. My other investigators would be paid by the hour. My sons were paid by the month as salaried employees. Therefore, they are paid the same amount whether or not they work. I left a note on Audrey’s desk, left my desk in a complete state of disorder, and went home. The next morning found me sitting behind my desk, talking to Mr. Gentry. He had on a red plaid shirt and dark slacks. I chuckled to myself when I thought about his shirt looking more like a hunter’s than a fisherman’s. “I went fishin’ last night—” he said cautiously. He looked worried that I might be upset. I was sure it showed on my face. “Didn’t catch anything, yet—but I will.” He paused to stare as though to ask me, “Are you disappointed?” I didn’t feel like playing games. I was definitely disappointed, but not because he hadn’t caught any fish. “Mr. Gentry, we’ve got to talk.” I scooted my chair closer to my desk and leaned forward. “We have examined the area

around your home. We found no dead animals at all.” I sighed. “We also checked out all footprints in the area, and they belonged to your paper boy, you, and your wife.” I didn’t think I should bother to ask if he thought of them as suspects. I looked more closely at my client. He didn’t appear to be paying any attention to what I was saying. He was fidgeting with his hat. 5 “Did you talk to Reverend Brown?” The question seemed rhetorical. | knew he’d seen me at the preacher’s house. He’d been peeking out the windows while I was there. “Yes, I spoke with him. He told me that there have never been any dead animals in the ditch and the only thing he’s 182

ever seen was one dead baby bird that you showed him.” I stared directly into his eyes. Mr. Gentry avoided my gaze, looked to the side, and

then down toward the floor. I cleared my throat to get his attention. He looked up at me. “Mr. Gentry, Anthony told me about your statement to him regarding the fact that only one

bird was ever found by you. Is that true?” I frowned. “Well, that may be true, but someone put him there and

I think it’s that preacher.” He rubbed his chin. “Here’s what ! figure. The prime suspect heard about some big-time investigation and quit his crime until it’s all over.” He shifted his weight on the chair and looked suspiciously at me. “Either that or you ain’t tellin’ me everything. That’s it, ain’t it? He done it and you know it and you won’t tell me?” I shook my head in unbelief. “No, Mr. Gentry, I did not learn anything, except what I’ve told you.” I pulled my yellow pad toward me and pretended to write. “You have no case. No one is trying to get rid of you. In fact the Reverend Brown told me he likes you and that you are a nice person.” I looked at my watch. It was time to wrap this up. “Mr. Gentry, when there is no evidence proving a crime exists, we discontinue the investigation. That is where we are now on your case. It is over now.” I stood up and walked around my desk. Mr. Gentry stood up. “Well, if you won’t investigate that preacher for me, I'll get Bob Cunningham to do it for me. I hear he’s the best investigator in Oklahoma.” He grinned like he’d taught me something new. “I'll hire him. Yes, ma’am! I’ll hire me the best investigator this side of Joplin.” He was nodding so fast the wind chill brought the temperature down by five degrees. This side of Joplin? What an odd remark. I wondered if that was a saying from his youth similar to one from mine that made no sense either. A common saying during my generation was, “Hey, man!” when speaking to a lady. I have nev183

er been able to figure that one out. But “this side of Joplin?” I shook my head to rid myself of such thoughts. Then I adopted my professional pose, took a deep breath, and let it out very slooow—ly. “I’m sorry Mr. Gentry, but one dead bird [I wanted to say, ‘does not a case make,’ but I was afraid he wouldn't get it. I’m not sure I do] in the bush is self-explanatory. We are finished with your case.” I looked at him still nodding and realized he hadn’t been listening to a word I said. “Yep! I’m hirin’ Bob Cunningham.” He moved toward the door. “Good day, Ms. Bolin.” With that, he jammed his hat down hard on his head, bending his ears in the process,

and stormed out the door. I chuckled to myself, thinking about him hiring Bob. Bob Cunningham is the investigator who trained me. He zs the best.

A man with total recall, he’s the finest investigator

I’ve ever known and I have known a few, plus he’s a great friend. Thinking about him gave me an idea. I picked up the phone and dialed his number. Susan, his secretary, answered

and put me through to Bob. “Bob Cunningham! How are you, Paula?” he asked. “Hello, Bob! I'm doing great. Say, Bob? How’d you like to take on a client who has mutilated animals on his bloody front lawn?”

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CHAPTER 9

Searching for a Samaritan in a Snowstorm “No! No! Don’t lock me out! Please help me; I’ve been hurt!” I had my radio tuned as usual to a station that played old-time melodramas, things like “The Shadow” and “Mercury Theatre.” Just as the heroine screamed with the right amount of agony in her last line, the door opened and Audrey Shaw-Houser, my blue blooded secretary with the cutest English dialect announced, “Mrs. Goldsborough.” The lady who entered the room heard the scream and looked as if she were going to faint. I pushed her into a chair and shoved her head down, trying to remember my first-aid training. Even at a time like this, when this rather patricianlooking woman in front of me was in obvious distress, I couldn’t help being a bit irreverent. As I pushed on top of her dark curls,

Iwondered what I would do in this situation

if it were a man in the chair, and if his toupee came off in my hand as I shoved! I almost giggled, just picturing the scene. A grunt from the woman called me back to the present. She was straightening up, and had, I was glad to see, a little bit of color in her cheeks. I just hoped that meant that she was feeling better, not that she was furious and ready to yell at me for manhandling her. “Thank you,” said Mrs. Goldsborough. 185

Whew. At least now I knew I wouldn’t have to be explaining myself in a lawsuit, or to the cops. The older woman squared her shoulders and settled more comfortably in the chair. “Ms. Bolin? I’m Pearl Goldsborough. I’m sorry to make such a dramatic entrance. I feel as if I’m ina bad dime-store detective story, bursting in on you and nearly fainting like that. You see, it was the radio show.” “I beg your pardon?” I went back around and sat behind my own desk. I turned off the radio. “That scream, those words. They are almost identical to

what my daughter, Jennifer, said when she was so badly injured and her brother wouldn't let her in. She could have died on the doorstep!” Now there was a dramatic title for you—Death on the Doorstep. I pulled my yellow pad toward me and jotted it down. Then I took a moment to look more closely at Mrs. Goldsborough while she was sniffling into a handkerchief that looked like linen. Everything about the woman was elegant. About fifty, she had the figure of a twenty-five-year old, with everything still defying the law of gravity. She had beautiful skin, dark olive, and dark hair that had just a few strands

of gray. Her eyes were hidden behind the handkerchief, but the fingers that held the handkerchief were full of rings and the rings were full of diamonds. I recognized the name Goldsborough as soon as Mrs. Goldsborough said it. She was the mother of Jennifer Goldsborough, a client of the law firm for which I was doing PI work. I had gotten the call from Dallas James, one of my favorite attorneys, yesterday. He told me that Mrs. Goldsborough would be coming to see me soon. I took another look at the rings and wished that I weren’t such an honest investigator, with a set fee per task. An unscrupulous PI would take one look at the rings and triple her fee. Me, I stuck to the normal schedule: seventy-five dollars per statement (whether 187

the statement takes three hours or ten minutes)

and sixty

dollars per hour. Each year in business, our rates increased from five to ten dollars per hour to keep up with rising costs. I smiled at Mrs. Goldsborough and showed that I wanted her to continue. “I’m sorry. I just keep thinking that I might have lost my daughter. I suppose I should give you all the facts. I don’t know how much my attorneys have already told you.” “Oh, Dallas called, but he gave me only the bare essen-

tials. I’d like you to assume that I know nothing about the case so far. Tell me the entire story, every detail you remember. Please take your time.” I usually start off this way when I see that a client is incoherent. If I just begin firing questions at the person, I end up merely frightening or intimidating her. That leads to a renewed bout with tears. I then spend most of my time looking at the top of a head that is bowed into a handkerchief, trying to make out syllables between the sobs. I have often thought I would have made a great dentist, as I was so good at interpreting mumbled sounds that most people would find unintelligible. “T want you to get information on the accident involving my daughter, Jennifer. She’s only fifteen. Last month she was injured in an auto accident.” “Were her injuries serious?” I asked. I knew it, I shouldn’t have said serious. I barely got the word out of my mouth before I was staring at my client’s scalp again, hair neatly parted, dark hairs streaked gray, quivering as she cried into the now soggy hankie. I had only served to” remind her what a close call her daughter had had. It took a few minutes, but I finally got Mrs. Goldsborough calmed down. I kept reminding her that her daughter was going to” recover completely (or so I hoped), that the worst was over, and that tears would help no one. 188

After a few minutes of such kind words, I got a little bit

more firm and reminded her that the sooner she calmed down the sooner we could resolve this problem. I concluded by reminding her that her tears were costing me time and thus costing her money. It’s amazing how the mere mention of that can help the individual get a grip on herself. Mrs. Goldsborough turned out to have a wonderful gift for description. As she told of the day of the tragedy, I could almost see the scene for myself. Oklahoma City was experiencing a record cold day that February 4th. The skies were crystal clear, with no snow, as

the disappointed students found when they woke up that morning. The buses were running, and school was in session. Everything was going well until shortly after noon when big clouds blew in from nowhere. The principal listened to the weather forecast and then went on the PA system. “Attention, attention please. The U.S. Weather Service has just informed us that we may expect a large snowstorm within the next three hours. Therefore, we have decided to close the school

early so that the buses can get through—” There

was more,

but no one

heard

it. The

halls were

filled with the cheers of students, supplemented by the slamming of books and the scraping of chairs being pushed back. Within twenty minutes, the school was empty and the snow was beginning to fall. Jennifer Goldsborough, a pretty teenager with long dark hair and hips that made boys want to crowd next to her at the lunch table, was sitting on the bus with her best friend, Cindy

Cole. Cindy was eating a bag of potato chips as usual. “Cindy, you had better stop eating so much! I am having trouble fitting on the same bench with you!” Jennifer teased her overweight friend. “That’s not funny! Get off my case! Just because you can eat like a pig and not gain an ounce is no reason to pick on 189

me. Let’s talk about something else, like Jeremy Work. Did you see his new haircut, wow—” The girls chattered on about Jeremy

and

other

boys, their friends,

their teachers,

and

everything else, as usual. They were deep into a discussion of George Michael versus Rick Astley when the bus suddenly gave a lurch and stopped. The driver swore under his breath, then stood up and faced the students. “Nothing to worry about, kids. I think some water just got into the carburetor. I’ll check it out, and we'll be on our way. Just be patient and remain in your seats while I have a look at it.” Thirty minutes later Jennifer nudged her friend, “C’mon, Cindy, let’s get out and walk. We can play in the snow before it melts. And besides, you can use the exercise.” Cindy turned on her friend. “One more word about my weight and I'll tell Jason Barnes that you said he has a rear end like a girl’s!” “You wouldn't! I swore you to secrecy!” Jennifer turned purple and looked around to make sure no one had heard what she said. “I would, and you know I would. But okay, let’s walk. Except that it’s five miles, easy, and it would take us forever, so I

don’t want to walk all the way home. And you know that once it begins snowing hard, the roads are going to be solid ice. My mom’s school is only about a mile from here. Let’s go there, and she can take us home. There’s a TV in the teacher’s lounge, so if we have to wait, we can watch the soaps. Have you seen the hot new guy on ‘Santa Barbara’? Talk about a tush!” The two friends got off, waved at the astonished bus driver, and began walking. There were no sidewalks in the area, so they trudged through the fields, slipping and sliding. The snow suddenly began to fall heavily, thick curtains of white that drivers cursed but teenagers enjoyed. Jennifer and

190

Cindy had a good time, tossing snowballs at each other and laughing. About a half mile later, they encountered a huge snowdrift. Jennifer looked around to see whether there were any cars coming, saw none, and stepped out onto the roadway to get around the drift. She had taken only a few steps, when a car came out of nowhere. The driver saw Jennifer at the last minute,

slammed

on her brakes, and was spinning out of

control when she caught Jennifer from behind. As Cindy watched in horror, Jennifer went flying up into the air, came crashing down hard onto the hood of the vehicle, and then slid down onto the snow. She just lay there, stunned. “Oh, my God, Jennifer! Are you all right? Say something! Are you bleeding? Is anything broken?” Cindy was crying and poking her friend, trying to get a reaction. The driver of the Ford got out and came running over. It was sixteen-year-old Nancy Hutchinson, with a car full of noisy teenagers. She looked as shaken up as Cindy. The redheaded girl bent over Jennifer. “Crap, are you all right? I didn’t see you at all. One minute there was nothing, and then suddenly you were in front of me. I didn’t see you. I didn’t have time to stop. Are you all right?” Nancy’s voice was loud and shaking. The teenagers in the car were quiet now, but not one of them got out to help. Jennifer sat up slowly, rubbing her back. “I’m fine. Stop shouting at me. I just feel bruised, that’s all.” Cindy helped Jennifer to her feet. “I think you should go to the hospital. Did you break anything?” “No, leave me alone. I’m fine. I just got bumped, that’s all. I’m only a little dizzy. A walk will do me good.” Jennifer turned and began walking away. Nancy looked at Cindy. “Oh, let her go. She’s okay. If she

191

goes to the hospital, they’ll make a big deal out of it. This is my dad’s car. If he finds out I was driving it and got into an accident, he’ll kill me.” Nancy ran back to the car and got in. She turned up the radio, rewed the engine, and drove away. The other kids in the car could be heard laughing all the way down the street. Cindy watched, then turned away, disgusted. She caught up with Jennifer. “Hey, wait up. You know, that redheaded girl was more concerned about herself than about you. She didn’t even tell us her name. All she did was whine about how she hopes her dad doesn’t find out. Jennifer, slow down!”

A gas station attendant ran out and took Jennifer’s arm. “Hey, I saw that whole thing. I got the license number, too. Smart aleck kids, thought the whole thing was a joke. How about you? Are you all right? Do you want me to call someone to take you to a doctor? I’d take you myself, but I’m the only one on duty today.” Jennifer shook off his hand. “I'll be all right only if every-

one stops asking me if I’m all right! Just let me be!” She slipped a little on the ice as she tried to make an irritable exit. The attendant looked at Cindy. “I was only trying to help her,” Cindy shrugged. “I know, and thanks. She can be a royal pain sometimes. I think she just wants to get home.” Cindy ran to catch up to Jennifer. “Why are you running? Slow down!” She finally pulled even with her friend. Jennifer was plodding along, looking down at the snow-covered ground. “Hey, Jennifer, seriously, should we ask that gas

station attendant to call someone for a ride home? He seems nice, I’m sure he’ll help.”

Jennifer didn’t answer. “What's your problem? Are you hurt after all? Let me see.” Cindy moved in front of Jennifer and tried to look at her. 12

Jennifer sidestepped. “Leave me alone. Let’s just get to your mother and get out of here. I’m humiliated and embarrassed. Did you see how those kids kept laughing at me? I didn’t want to get into a car with a bunch of punks, and if you weren't so stupid, you wouldn’t want me to, either.” “Hey, don’t turn on me! I didn’t do anything! I only asked you how you were. I’m sorry I asked. But let’s slow down. It’s too cold to walk this fast, and Mom’s school is only a few more minutes away. And besides, aren’t you at least sore? That was a big hit you took. Doesn’t anything hurt?” Cindy was huffing and puffing. Jennifer looked straight ahead. “For the ten hundredth time, I’m fine. Nothing hurts. It’s so cold, ’m numb. And I’m not walking fast. If you weren’t so fat, you wouldn’t think so, either!” Jennifer kept plodding away. A grimace flashed across her face as she suddenly got a pain across her back. She swallowed and decided not to let Cindy see the pain, after telling her she was fine. “Jennifer!” Cindy stood still and looked as if she were going to cry. “Jennifer! Why are you being so mean to me today? That’s the third time you called me fat!” Jennifer didn’t respond. “Well, fine, if you’re going to act like that. Forget you.” For the next ten minutes, the girls walked on, not look-

ing at each other or saying anything. Jennifer began to walk slower and slower. She was getting stiffer by the minute, and was having trouble keeping her head clear. It seemed to be buzzing around. She felt confused and had a feeling of not being there. Finally, the junior high school where Cindy’s mother worked came into view. Cindy saw her mother just getting into her car in the parking lot and ran ahead. Jennifer kept plodding along. Cindy got into her mother’s car. Jennifer looked up and could see her friend gesturing. She tried to hurry, but she 193

stumbled, and her legs wouldn’t take her any faster. Just then, the car accelerated and pulled away. Jennifer saw Cindy turn around and give her a smug look, as if to say she had gotten even for the fat comments. Jennifer began to realize that she would have to get a ride home, because she had already walked a mile. She had over four miles to go before she would be home, and she was beginning to feel terrible. Her head ached and she was exhausted. She decided to go inside the school and use the telephone. “Do you attend this school?” the smiling lady behind the counter asked. Jennifer slowly shook her head. “No, of course not! I’m a junior!” “Then I’m sorry, but you can’t use the phone. It’s official school policy. There is a pay phone just across the street at the 7-11 store, if you’d like to use it.” Jennifer gave the woman a dirty look. “It’s snowing! Come on, just let me use the stupid phone. Ill be only a minute.” A typical teenager, Jennifer was too chagrined to beg and have to explain that she was hurt. She didn’t want to appear to be trying to elicit sympathy, so she remained silent about the matter. The woman shook her head firmly. “Absolutely not. It’s

against the rules.” She pointed to the door. “The 7-11 is that way.” Jennifer stepped outside into the cold and felt her body stiffen immediately. It was becoming harder and harder to force her legs to keep going.It seemed like forever before she arrived at the 7-11...only to find that she didn’t have any money on her. She asked the clerk whether she could use the phone inside the store to make a call, but she was turned away. “Sorry, we can’t let anyone make personal calls. This is a business telephone. If we let one use it, we have to let them

194

all. Even the employees here have to use the pay phones.” Jennifer went back outside and began walking home. At that point, all she could think of was getting home and getting into a hot bath. Nearly two hours after the accident, Jennifer was still walking and looking around for a familiar face, someone who would give her a ride the rest of the way home. Still several blocks from home, Jennifer heard a car horn. She turned around and saw Lena Mitchell, her neighbor. “Jennifer, what on earth are you doing walking in this snow? Get in, get in.” Mrs. Mitchell opened the car door for Jennifer. Jennifer could barely move. “Jennifer, don’t let all the heat out. Come on, hurry up.” Mrs. Mitchell smiled at her. Jennifer didn’t know whether she had the strength to get in, because every part of her body was aching by then.

She shrugged, thanked her neighbor, and crawled in. She was so stiff that she couldn’t relax, but sat bolt upright against the car cushions. When they reached the Goldsborough residence, she thanked Mrs. Mitchell and took her time getting out of the car. Jennifer trudged up the path and saw her brother standing at the living-room window, staring at her. Teddy was one year older than Jennifer, and he enjoyed teasing and tormenting his sister. Today he was in character. He stuck his tongue out at Jennifer, hugged himself and made shivering motions, and then laughed. Jennifer could hear him running to the front door and bolting it shut. Jennifer rang the bell and banged on the door. “Teddy, let me in. Stop this fooling around. Teddy, I’m sick!” Jennifer’s voice. “Ooooh, tooo bad!” Jennifer was beginning to lose consciousness and made one final effort. “Teddy, I need help. Teddy!” 195

Teddy was sitting inside the hallway, his feet jammed against the door. He was laughing so hard at teasing his little sister that he didn’t even notice for several minutes that she had stopped talking. Sure that she was trying to trap him, he kept the door bolted and went to the window to look out. What he saw was his sister unconscious on the doorstep. She was facing sideways; Teddy could see Jennifer’s lips turning blue. Teddy ran to open the door and seeing that she was unconscious, he carried his sister inside the house. “And then he called me, I came home from work, and

we took her to the hospital,” Mrs. Goldsborough finished her story. I shook my head to clear it. I had been so involved in the story that I had almost lost track of business. “And how is Jennifer now? I hear from the attorneys that she is doing well?” Mrs. Goldsborough, apart from a few gulps, had made it through the story smoothly. I figured I was safe to ask this. But I had a box of Kleenex handy, just in case the waterworks started again. “Yes, thank you. She’s doing much better. We found out that Jennifer had a sprained back, whiplash, a brain concussion, and internal injuries. The doctors said they were amazed that Jennifer was able to walk and talk and function normally. According to Dr. R. Timothy Escajeda, Jennifer must have been walking around on automatic pilot, as he called it, nearly unconscious. She didn’t even know what she

was saying. But she’s doing better, and Doctor Escajeda said that she will be almost perfect in a few months.” I leaned back. “I’m very glad to hear that.” I meant every word. I could just imagine how I would have felt if it had been my child wandering around in freezing temperatures. I had a momentary pang as I remembered the time my son Kent was seriously injured in a motorcycle accident. Fortunately, he had been able to call me and we got him to a hos196

pital quickly. Even so, he suffered back and eye problems. I shuddered to think of what could have happened had he not gotten medical attention quickly. “Sometimes I think Teddy is taking it worse than Jennifer. He’s convinced he nearly killed his sister by teasing her. He feels very badly about it. But I expect—” said Mrs. Goldsborough, showing the first gleam of humor—“that he’ll be back to tormenting her soon enough.” “And now,” I said, spellbound by the lights reflecting off of the five, six, seven diamonds I counted on her right hand

alone, “Please tell me how I can help. What is it you want me to do?” It was amazing how quickly the handkerchief disappeared and the voice got strong as Mrs. Goldsborough told me about the lawsuit she had filed. “Since Dallas James, the attorney, hired you, you probably know much of it. We are suing the school for letting a teenage girl go wandering around in the freezing cold, the bus company for its breakdown, the teenager who hit my child—” she went on and on. This woman was suing everyone but the telephone company that didn’t make free telephones for use by stranded teenagers. I did already know much of this, but it never hurts to let someone tell me the situation again. To make a long story short, Mrs. Goldsborough wanted me to make a survey of everything from where the bus broke down to the scene of the accident to the route Jennifer followed home. She was yet another client who decided to tell me how to go about my business. As usual, I smiled, nodded, and thanked her for her advice. Then I ushered her out and got to work. Over the next several weeks, I did plenty of legwork, the kind that is never shown in the television shows that depict the glamour of the profession. I had to locate and interview witnesses, take photographs of the scene under conditions 197

approximating those that existed at the time of the accident, and collect doctors’ reports, photos, and documentation

of

the damage to the car that struck Jennifer. In short, I collected as much information as possible. I always more than earn my money on accident cases. (Given a choice, accident cases are the last type I would take. I prefer domestic cases. The perks come

in there: Good food, a nice hotel, travel, all on

the expense account.) We took the information and went into court. The bus company was not liable, since the bus driver had specifically told the girls to stay on the bus. He had been unable to prevent their leaving, which they did of their own free will and despite his request. The school was not liable as it was not informed ofJennifer’s injuries. The entire blame lay with Nancy’s father for allowing his daughter to drive his car. She was named in the lawsuit since she was the one driving the vehicle. Although her attorneys claimed she was driving within a

reasonable speed limit range of thirty-five miles per hour, she was driving too fast for road conditions. The posted speed limit at the site was forty miles per hour. The court held that excessive speed was the main contributing factor. We were able to prove additionally that the car Nancy was driving was overly crowded with teenagers and that the radio was turned up too high for her to have been devoting full time and attention to her driving. As usual (when a case has been investigated by private investigators), the case was settled before the final verdict was given. This is customary in personal injury cases. Both sides go to court to sound each other out, then come to an agreement before the gavel drops. Because Jennifer did not call the police to the scene of the accident, we got a little less than we could have otherwise. (The attorney estimated that a police report would have been worth an additional two thousand dollars to our case.) However, we did get a decent 198

settlement. How much? Let’s just say that it was enough for Jennifer to be able to make it through four years of college without having to work at McDonald’s. This case is one I look back on frequently. It left me with two legacies. First, I have become almost a tout for the medical profession. Whenever I hear of someone who has been struck, I insist he or she get medical attention immediately. (The doctors should get together and award me a prize for all the business I have thrown their way!) It is all too easy for someone not to know that he has been injured. I once hada case in which a person’s foot was cut off, a fact that he didn’t even notice until he happened to glance down. The second legacy is a litthe more embarrassing. Now, whenever there is even a suspicion of bad weather, I look for teenagers walking. I go up, offer them a ride, and remembering Jennifer, probably get a little too insistent that they let me help them. Someday, some teenager is going to report “the pushy lady in the blue Dodge Van” to the cops.

ise!

Ch.JO

CHAPTER

10

Carvings of God and the Devil “Bob Williams arrested in grisly satanic slashing of nineteenyear-old girl.” The news came over the car radio. Bob Williams? My friend,

Bob?

Gentle,

kind,

considerate,

intelligent

Bob?

Maybe I misheard. The newscaster continued. It was unsettling to hear such gruesome news said in the same bright, sprightly, artificial voice the newscaster had used a moment before to announce the opening of a new supermarket on the south side. I turned the radio up louder and for once was pleased when I was held up in traffic. The snarl allowed me to concentrate on the news flash. “Two weeks ago police answered a call from nineteenyear-old Leslie Meeks and found her mutilated. Carvings and marks later identified as associated with satanic cults covered her body...” The traffic began to move again. I sat there until a blast from the horn of the car behind me startled me. I drove on,

then pulled into the corner Taco Bell to listen further. The newscaster babbled on. _ “...Ms. Meeks was in the hospital, but has been released and is expected to recover. Authorities have charged thirty-five-year-old Bob Williams of Rhapsody Heights, arresting him at his contracting firm. Mr. Williams has denied guilt.” 201

For a moment, I had hoped that it was another Bob Williams. After all, the name

is quite familiar. But it was un-

likely that there were two thirty-five-year-old building contractors in Rhapsody Heights with that name. I went inside the restaurant and called Bob’s home. “Hello, this is Paula Bolin, Bob’s friend. May I speak with

him, please?” I asked phone. It was obvious calls because I heard when a moment later

the roommate who answered the telethat Ron was designated to screen the him mumbling to Bob. I was relieved Bob took my call.

“Paula, I didn’t do it! You have to believe me!” he blurt-

ed out his statement immediately.

“Bob, I do believe you. You could never do something like that. I just heard the news; the police must have made a serious mistake. I’m calling to see how I can help. Obviously, you’ve been let out on bail. Does that mean you have an attorney?” I asked. “Yes, I hired Dillon Cody. He told me not to talk to anyone, just to tell everyone to call him. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, and I appreciate your help, but maybe you should call him—” poor Bob sounded exhausted. I was touched that in the middle of all his problems he was concerned about my own feelings. “Bob, Dillon is a surpassingly competent attorney. You're wise to follow his advice. Don’t worry, I'll call Dillon right now. He and I have worked together several times. What I'd like to know is whether you'd like me to investigate this case for you. I could get started right away. My fee would come out of what you paid Dillon,” I explained. Bob agreed, so I called Dillon when I arrived home.

I

was relieved to hear that he was convinced that Bob was innocent and that the evidence against him would not stand up. He hired me and filled me in on the details. He suggested I begin with Leslie Meeks, the alleged victim. 202

“Paula,” Dillon said, his opinion of Ms. Meeks obvious in every sarcastic syllable, “that girl is a bald liar. First, she says to the police that she cannot positively identify her attacker, that it was dark and she didn’t get a good look at him. Then she remembers that he was white and five-foot-ten and about 150 pounds.” “But Bob is at least 250 pounds!” I said. “How could the police arrest him?” “They didn't, at first. They were looking for someone much less heavy. But then Ms. Meeks contacted them again and said that she had positively identified Bob as her assailant. Naturally, the authorities didn’t bother with a little thing like a completely wrong description. They just went ahead and arrested a man who had never been in trouble with the law before, a solid citizen with his own business and

not so much as a parking ticket.” Dillon sounded disgusted. “Why would she do this to Bob? Were they lovers? Is she a woman scorned?” I was trying to make sense of this. Dillon’s next words made everything clear. “The young woman has filed a civil lawsuit for one million dollars in damages. Does that answer your question?” Of course! An unknown assailant, even if he were caught,

could probably not cough up any money. But charge Bob, a solid citizen with a thriving business, and she could finance her retirement before she turned twenty. This was beginning to make sense. I became just as disgusted as Dillon at this stage. What type of person could intentionally ruin a man’s life, put him in prison for years, in order to make money out of the deal? It was difficult to think of a nineteen-year-old as being that cruel and jaded already. It would be my pleasure to investigate her and see what passed for character in her life. “What do you want me to do, Dillon?” I pulled a yellow pad toward me and prepared to make a list. “Make a complete investigation of this Leslie Meeks. I 203

want absolutely everything you can give me on her, her background, her friends, any problems she’s had. Something tells me this is no lily white virginal child we are dealing with.” I had to laugh, despite my disgust over the situation and my concern for Bob. “Dillon, exactly when was the last time you and I dealt with a lily white virginal child, anyway?” Dillon laughed too. “Well, there was that naive woman who was bilked out of her savings by the couple, remember her? Of course, she was eighty, if she was a day. But you have a good point. Anyway, let’s begin with Ms. Meeks, who fully intends to inherit the earth, or at least as much of it as she can soak our client for. Begin turning over some rocks,

Paula, as only you can do.” “I’m not so sure I like the connotations of that would-be compliment, but you’ve got it, Dillon. I will find out the exact number of butterflies she has pulled wings off of and the quantity of puppies she has kicked. I'll get back to you as soon as I have something,” I replied.

Leslie Meeks was from Kansas City, Kansas. I wanted to stay in town here in case Dillon or Bob needed me, so I sent two investigators, my very talented and intellectual son John, and the finest young man who ever put on a pair of shoes, Douglas Case, out there to look around. They came through for us. There were, as Dillon would say, plenty of creepycrawlies under the rocks they turned over. Let’s just say that Leslie would be laughed out of church should she ever try to wear white on her wedding day... It seems that at age twelve, Leslie began smoking marijuana. At thirteen, she had sex with a sixteen-year-old boy in one of the parks where she hung around, rather than going to school. She became pregnant and had an abortion three months later. By fourteen, Leslie had branched out into LSD.

She had also begun having sex with more than one boy at a time. Her nickname, according to one of the boys who my in204

vestigators contacted, was “Pass around Pack.” As a result of one

of the multiple

encounters,

Leslie

thought she was pregnant for the second time. Previously, the boy responsible had paid for her abortion. This time, Leslie had no idea who the father might be. She had no money of her own for the abortion and was forced to tell her parents of the pregnancy (she had not told them about the first one). Out of fear that her parents would disown her or kick her out and stop supporting her (and Leslie had absolutely no intention of doing something so mundane as actually working!), she informed them that she had been raped. Her parents took her to the police station, where Leslie filed a complaint, which re-

sulted in rape charges being filed against the three boys, aged seventeen to twenty. Within a week, Leslie found out that she was not pregnant and changed her story. She then told her parents that the boys had merely tried to rape her. When the police informed her that she would have to testify to that in court, that the rape trial would proceed as planned, she panicked and told the absolute truth. By this time, no one believed her. She had changed her story too many times. Leslie, out of fear of being cross-examined and forced to reveal the truth, refused to testify. Without her testimony, the district attorney had no case and the charges were eventually dropped. Leslie and her parents had moved to Midwest City, Oklahoma, when Leslie was sixteen. By age seventeen, Leslie had an apartment of her own and was working as a waitress. She had never finished high school. When she turned nineteen, Leslie met Ron Chambers,

Bob’s roommate,

in a bar. They

had sex that night, and for the first time, Leslie fell in love. She spent all of her spare time with Ron. Since he was Bob’s roommate, Ron and Leslie spent much time with Bob and his live-in girlfriend, Pat. Pat and Leslie became good friends. When Bob rejected 205

Pat’s ultimatum of “marriage ... or else!” Pat moved into another apartment and asked Leslie to room with her. Leslie was happy to do so, as Pat was paying the larger share of the rent. Leslie spent most of her money on drinking and drugs. She continued to date Ron, mostly meeting him at a bar, the Golden

Knight. Ron was cooling in his feelings for Leslie,

and sensing this, she became desperate. For revenge, she began dating as many men as possible and flaunting them in front of him. Part of her payback was to allow him to see her drunk and using drugs. After reading Douglas’s and John’s report, I had to laugh, knowing that the jury would see Leslie for what she was, a very unsavory character. Dillon would portray her as such with his very gentle but relentless line of questioning. I wondered how any young woman could want to go head-tohead with an intellectual like Dillon. She was uneducated, promiscuous, and a drug abuser who had merely been scorned by Bob’s roommate. The primary question left to resolve was why she decided to go after Bob instead of Ron. Ron, while not a millionaire, was at least financially stable. It was time for me to meet this young lady in person. This tme I made an appointment to see Leslie at her office. My reason was to be assured that no one else would be present when the interrogation took place. Being satisfied that we would be alone, I headed up to her office. While shaking hands with Leslie, I took stock of both Leslie and the

environment in which she worked. Shabby and sloppy came to my mind. She was short, standing about five feet tall, but

weighing about 150 pounds. Shé wore a polyester dress with a crooked hem and stains down the front. Her hair was reddish-brown, poorly cut, and she had brown narrow eyes. The cutest thing about her was the sprinkling of freckles over her nose.

I looked, but I could see no sign of the carvings that

had precipitated this whole affair. 206

I showed Leslie my private investigator’s identification card, which she took as if I were offering her a particularly slimy fish. She held it for a second, then shoved it back at me.

“Okay, if the police say it’s okay for me to talk to you, I don’t mind.” Leslie said while walking back to her desk, where she seated herself. “What do you want to know?” Leslie had made the same mistake that many others make, assuming that I was acting under police auspices. My ID card reads: “The Chief of Police of Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, certifies that Paula Bolin is certified as a Private Invesuigator.” It’s surprising how many people don’t bother to read beyond the “Chief of Police” part and never even note that I am a private investigator. I smiled as I thought what a stupid question Leslie had asked. I wanted to know what happened, why she was doing this to Bob, how she could live with her lies. But all I said was,

“Please tell me everything that happened on the night you Say you were injured.” She scratched

her head.

“Well, I went

to the Golden

Knight. I went alone, but I have a lot of friends there. Ron and Bob were both there. I danced with Bob twice, and he

was real friendly. That was strange, cause he usually isn’t that nice to me. Then I danced with Ron, of course. He’s my boyfriend, you know.” She smiled self-importantly. Leslie had

no way of knowing that I knew that Ron had broken up with her months earlier and considered her a pest. “I danced with a lot of guys, actually. There was a really cute one, Larry, ina cowboy hat. It was cowboy night, you know.” I tried to get a word in edgewise. “Did these men buy you drinks?” I thought I was more likely to get an honest answer to that question than had I baldly asked her how much she had had to drink. “Well, no, not exactly. The Golden Knight isn’t like that. Everyone buys their own drinks. I had two whiskey sours. I 207

can drink those all night long and never get drunk. They’re my favorite drink.” She sounded cheerful. I decided to ask about this statement of never being drunk, but drinking all night. She must have been the only person ever who could drink all night never becoming drunk. “All night long? Were you in the Golden Knight all night? When did you leave?” I asked. Leslie squinted her narrow eyes as if thinking back to that night. Then she smiled again. “Ron asked me to take him home, because

he didn’t have a ride. He came with Bob—

they live together you know... but Bob left earlier, about eleven. He went home when the band stopped playing. I stayed until closing time. I guess it was about two in the morning. Then I drove Ron home. I think maybe he arranged with Bob for him to leave early, so that I’d have to give Ron a ride. As soon as we got to their house, Ron was all over me. We went back to the bedroom, and Ron kept asking me to spend the

night. I didn’t want to, and Ron got mad at me. He kept talking about it. But I finally got so mad Ijust left.” I shook my head sympathetically, while she took a breath. “Men don’t understand, do they, that sometimes we just don’t want to spend the night, even when we love them. Did you two have a fight?” Leslie responded immediately to my sympathy. She relaxed for the first time in our interview. It was obvious that she thought she was having a cozy chat with a girlfriend, with someone who “understood.” At the beginning, she had seemed a little uncomfortable talking about sex. However, now that I had struck the right note of “We’re all in this together,” she was much more relaxed. I managed to put her at ease by acting closer to her age than I actually was. I’m lucky to be a petite person and can seem younger than I am (unless I have my sons along, who delight in calling me “Mother” to ensure that everyone knows I am old enough to have 208

grown sons!) By dressing in a certain style (I have to, anyway; my size is only sold in the junior department) and using the right slang (and my sons know the language of youth), it is easy to develop a mood of comradeship. “No, no fight. Wejust yelled, then I left. I was only there about an hour, an hour and a half. Well, then—”

I interrupted her. “Where was Bob all this time?” “He was upstairs, in his room,” replied Leslie.

“How do you know? Could he have come down without your knowing it?” I asked. With arrogant people, a good interviewing technique is to suggest that something could happen that they didn’t know or weren’t in control of. They immediately bristle and take exception. Leslie did so now. “I know

because

his car was in the driveway; I parked

right next to it. And could he have gone out without my knowing it? Absolutely not. The stairs creak real loudly. Although we had the stereo turned on, we could have heard the creaking noise above the stereo. If Bob had come down,

I would have heard him. Those stairs wake the dead.” “Okay, that clears that up,” I said, pretending to make a

note. “Go on, what happened next?” “I went out to my car. Ron usually goes with me, but he was pissed off because I wouldn’t stay. So I went alone. I bet he’s sorry now, after what happened! Anyway, I drove away, and I got only as far as the end of the driveway, when a man got up from the back floorboard. He put a knife to my throat and told me to drive to the park. There’s a park just a few blocks away from Ron’s house. I was so scared that I just did what he said.”

I stared at Leslie. Here she was reciting the facts of what surely had to be one of the most horrible experiences in a woman’s life, and she sounded as if she were talking about what she had to get from the IGA store on her way home. 209

There was no quaver in her voice, no flush on her face, no

hesitation in the telling of the tale. I had heard many tragic stories from rape victims and brutalized women,

but I had

never heard anyone recite them in such a matter-of-fact voice. Even women who were in shock and handled the rape as if it happened to someone else had difficulty getting the words out. That was a normal reaction. What was not natural was how Leslie was telling me of having a knife to her throat in a normal conversational tone. “Did you recognize him?” I asked. “Oh, no. I couldn’t see the man, not then. All I saw was

that big silver knife at my neck.” Finally, Leslie reacted, giving a shiver that looked as if it had been rehearsed. I wondered how she could see a knife underneath her face at her throat,

in the dark, but I let it pass. “And then what? I’m sorry to make you go through all this. It must have been horrible.” I tried to make my voice warm and understanding, but I had a sick feeling in my stomach. I couldn’t get out of my mind all those poor women I had interviewed over the years who truly had experienced horrible situations, who had trouble even thinking about the

awful things that had happened to them. And now here was Leslie, who couldn’t wait to try her story on me. “That’s all right. Well, the man...” At this point, my attention wandered. I was thinking that

it was odd that Leslie kept referring to her assailant as “the man.” If it in fact were Bob, why wouldn’t she use his name? She had known Bob for six months, had gone boat, had danced with him that very evening.

Leslie was ing a play, not matic moment. me to have sex

out on

his

chattering away. She acted as if she were readas if she were reliving what had to be a trau“... told me to take off my clothes and asked with him. I said no, so he ripped off my shirt

210

and jeans, and tied my hands behind my back with a brown rope. He took the knife and slashed my throat a little. Then he cut crosses near my pelvis and called them the marks of God. Next, he cut slashes across my butt and shoulders and called them the marks of the devil.” I couldn’t believe the casual way in which Leslie told her story, as if this sort of thing happened to everyone every day. We were sitting in Leslie’s office, the phones ringing, other workers (back from lunch) wandering about by now. Leslie even offered me a Coke, as if I were a social visitor. She told

me about getting carved up in the same voice I would use to tell someone about my bowling score. I wondered whether she had managed to put on a more hysterical, dramatic act for the police. She must have done something; no one would believe the story she was telling now. “You must have been in awful pain. Didn’t anyone hear your screaming? Didn’t anyone come to your aid?” This was one of the things that I had been wondering about from the start. How could anyone endure such mutilation without making an incredible amount of noise? At that hour of the morning, with the air being so still and other noises virtually nonexistent, a good scream would have carried for miles. And the park Leslie was describing was right in the middle of a residential section. Leslie had not mentioned being gagged; indeed, she seemed to be having a conversation with her assailant. I hoped that she would say that the carving didn’t hurt a bit. If she repeated that story in court, the jury would immediately discount her as a liar. Good old Leslie came through. “Oh, it didn’t hurt. I didn’t scream. I think maybe I was in shock. I stood perfectly still.” “Could that have been because you were drugged or drunk, Leslie?” I thought I might sneak the question in.

211

However, Leslie apparently was pretty sensitive on that mat-

ter. No wonder, she had probably heard about her substanceabuse problem for years now. “No, I told you. I wasn’t drunk. And I don’t do drugs, not real drugs, anyway. It was just the shock. You know how it is.” Leslie actually smiled at me as if we were companions in some

wonderful

secret.

Never,

thank

God,

having

been

carved up, I couldn’t say that I did know how it was. “Okay, let’s talk about the man

now. What did he look

like?” I asked. “Well, you know what Bob looks like, right? I imagine the police must have shown you a picture of him. Or maybe you’ve met him?” Leslie was confused as to my status on the case. When I arranged the interview, I merely told her that I was investigating the case. I specifically did not tell her that I was acting on behalf of Bob. She was still remembering my ID card with the imprimatur of the police chief, perhaps. Whatever conclusions she leapt to were her problem. “Forget Bob Williams for a minute. Tell me how you described your attacker a few minutes after you were injured?” I shook my pen and scribbled a few notes on my yellow pad. Writing something down always encourages the interviewee. There is something in human nature that enjoys being the center of attention. People just love it when you write down the pearls of wisdom that drop from their lips. “Well, first of all, I didn’t tell the police until the next

day, and it was dark, but I got a pretty good look at him. He was kinda big, not huge, but big. And he was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. The funny thing was how he ran after it was all over, real clumsy, like a big bear. He looked as if he was running in slow motion. It was real weird, the way he ran.” Now this was something new. Leslie hadn’t said this to the police, according to their records. I was pleased to hear

212

it, because Bob was anything but clumsy. He had run crosscountry in high school and college, and he was very graceful. He had a long, loping run. But under the influence of drugs, a person might appear to the user to be running in slow motion. “One final question, Leslie, and then I'll let you get back to work. How long did this horrible experience take?” “Oh, I guess about thirty-five or forty minutes all together. Yeah, that’s right. After the man ran away, I put my clothes on, got back in the car, and then sat there for a while. Then I drove home. I guess it was about 4:00 A.M. then.” I stood up and walked around to the door. Leslie stood up too, as if to say good-bye to me. Then I came back and sat

down again. This was my way of throwing the interviewee off, of making her realize that we have now hit a new level of questioning. Leslie sensed that something was going to change and became uncomfortable. “Uh, I have to get back to work. You said you had only one more question.” I looked at her without smiling. “No, I have several more questions. Why do you call the person ‘the man’ if you think it is Bob? According to the police report, you told both the police and your roommate and the secretary here that your

assailant was blond and 150 pounds, while Bob is brunette and a lot heavier than that. You said the man was five foot ten and Bob is six foot four. How do you reconcile that? And how could a man six foot four fit onto the back floorboard of a Ford Mustang and not be noticed?” Leslie opened her mouth to say something, but I bulldozed right on. I was on a roll now. I just prayed that the phone wouldn’t ring and that no one would bother us. “And why would Bob, who has been nothing but a friend to you, suddenly decide to attack you? Why wait until this par-

203

ticular time after Ron leaves you? Why would he carve signs on you, but not rape you? Why did you wait eight days before identifying Bob as the one who attacked you? And one final question: Why do you think you can get away with telling these outrageous lies in court? Just remember, Leslie, that anything you say in court will be under oath. You tell this story, and you will be liable for perjury. People can go to prison for perjury. Good-bye, Leslie—see you in court!” I normally didn’t get quite so rough with witnesses, but this woman had infuriated me. Bob was a personal friend, and I guess I was more emotionally involved than I should have been. It doesn’t do any good to threaten a witness, but there were no other people listening (I made certain of that, by walking to the door of Leslie’s office to see that it was firmly closed), and Leslie wouldn’t be believed if she repeated the conversation anyway. After interviewing Leslie, I went back through my notes and prepared a list of points that needed clarification. I telephoned Ron Chambers and got him to agree to an interview. He was extremely eager to help. In fact, his first words on the telephone were, “I’1l do whatever I can to save Bob from that crazy lady.” Ron and I had a very productive interview. Briefly, he agreed with much of what Leslie said about her taking him from the Golden Knight that night. He said that Leslie was not drunk, although she was a little lightheaded. But he added one very critical point of information when I asked how Leslie knew that Bob was at home. After all, just the fact that Bob’s car was in the driveway didn’t necessarily mean that Bob was there. “She saw him!” This was news

to me.

Ron

continued,

“You see, we had the stereo up too loud, and it woke up Bob. He came down and asked us to turn it down. Then after Leslie left, he came back down again and said he could not 214

go back to sleep. We ate sandwiches together and sat there talking until after four in the morning. Then we each went to our separate bedrooms .for the rest of the night.” This was amazing. “Leslie had already been attacked by 4:00 A.M. [she said]. Did you tell this to the police?” “Of course I did! I told them and told them until I was blue in the face. But they don’t believe me. They think I’m lying just to help Bob,” said Ron. I interrogated Ron again and again on his story, trying to trip him up, to shake him, but he was solid. He and Bob had discussed the time, first when Ron apologized for waking up Bob, and later when they both said how they had to get a few hours of sleep before going to work. Ron repeated the story about the squeaking stairway, saying that he had seen Bob go up to bed and that there was no way Bob could have left later without being heard by him. According to Ron, later would have been much later than when the actual attack had taken place if Leslie’s story was to be believed. When I thanked Ron for his help, he shrugged. “I’d do anything to help Bob. I feel terrible about this, since it’s my fault for getting involved with Leslie in the first place. It was just...you know... sexual. She was just there. She was easy. I never liked her all that much. I think she’s crazy, if you want to know the truth.” I took my information and wrote up a report. Audrey typed it up and gave it to Dillon. Later, Dillon and I discussed the case and waited for the jury trial. We anticipated that Bob Williams would be acquitted because there was no “proof beyond a reasonable doubt” of his guilt, but we both wanted to know exactly what had happened. It wasn’t enough for us to get our client released; we had to be sure we had the whole story, just for our own peace of mind. Therefore, although we had more than enough evidence to get Bob released, we stayed with the case. We knew 2S

we could never have too much evidence, but we could have too little, so it was better to have more. A few weeks before

trial, I finally unearthed the truth . . . and it was stranger than we could have ever imagined. On October 19, 1982, at 2:20 A.M. Leslie Meeks, slightly

intoxicated and very angry with her boyfriend, Ron, who had rejected her, drove away from his home. She traveled to the southwest side of the city, where she joined a group of her friends. The area was an old abandoned farmhouse with many acres of land containing only one crop, marijuana. There, along with about thirty-five others, she enjoyed smoking “pot” and drinking beer. She watched as ten of the revelers, wearing black hoods with eye slits, dark clothing, and moccasin-type boots with fringe, weaved their way through the crowd. The ten carried twelve-inch lighted candles, and they were moaning and muttering. They stopped in front of Leslie, just staring at her. She stared back for a few seconds,

then slowly rose and walked over to a giant-sized bonfire in the middle of the crowd. She then removed all of her clothing and remained silent, standing with her back to the fire. She stared out into the open field of plants. Several members of the group carried large bales of hay over to where Leslie was standing. There were tall stakes sticking out of the ground. The strangely attired group arranged the bales and stakes, then picked up Leslie, carrying her to the hay bales where they laid her on top of them. She was tied spread-eagle style to the stakes. Leslie lay naked in the 28-degree weather, not speaking, nor seeming to notice anything that was happening to her. The crowd began to chant, “Carve her for God! Carve her for God! Crosses! Crosses! Lucifer will carve her!” While the chanting continued, one hooded member took a knife and began a slicing movement around Leslie’s 216

bare breasts, drawing a cross on each side of her chest, above her breasts. He continued his drawings, tracing a circle around her navel, a straight line down to the pelvic region, another cross on her abdomen. Leslie was then untied, only to be flipped over onto her stomach, where the carving continued, once she had been securely tied again. Throughout the ordeal the crowd chanted, the candles flickered, and Leslie lay silent. The knife was passed to a second man, who began to use Leslie as an artist would use a canvas for his artistry. The only difference was that in this case, the knife was used in place of a brush. While carving intricate upside down crosses across her shoulders, back, and

buttocks, he never missed one breath of the similar chanting. When

he finished,

he lifted the knife to show the crowd,

which immediately began another group of words, this time saying, “Devil crosses! Devil crosses! She’s a devil, with the devil crosses!”

Leslie had been initiated into the satanic worshipers group, southwest side.

After a while, the effects of the drugs and drinks began to wear off. No one was paying any attention to Leslie any longer, so after working herself free from the lightly ted ropes, she clambered down from the hay bales and put on her clothes. After having another marijuana cigarette with some of the group members, Leslie then drove herself home.

Once Leslie arrived at the apartment, she was so exhausted from her overnight activities that she merely stripped off all her clothing and spread out naked on the bare living-room floor. The wooden flooring felt cool and good to her skin. The next morning, Leslie’s roommate, Pat, came out of

the bedroom and tripped over Leslie. She bent down and saw the red marks all over her body. Concerned, Pat tried to wake Leslie but failed. Pat could smell an alcohol odor emapall

nating from Leslie’s body and decided to let her sleep it off. After arriving home from work later that day, Pat decided to have a serious talk with her roommate,

Leslie. Leslie,

knowing that Pat would not approve of the Satanic cult in which she had allowed herself to be initiated, chose to lie to

her friend. She feared being kicked out of the apartment and of losing her friend. So she made up the story about an assailant. There was one problem for Leslie. She underestimated what her friend, Pat, might do. Pat insisted that Leslie call

the police and go to a doctor. During the next eight days following the incident, Pat and Leslie talked many times about the assailant. Pat was still very hurt and angered after being dumped by Bob, and she thought that Leslie should change her story to make Bob the fall guy. As she later tearfully admitted, using Bob would solve all their problems. “I could get even with Bob, making his life miserable, like he made mine. Everyone would be horrified by him, and even his own roommate, Ron, would move out, since he had

molested Ron’s girl. Leslie could get some sympathy from Ron, maybe even winning him back. And since Bob is rich, we figured we could get some money out of him from a civil lawsuit,” said Pat. Fortunately, the women’s

plan failed. Bob Williams was

acquitted of the charges. We were not allowed to bring in the information about the satanic cult, as we could get no corroborating evidence. Despite our best efforts, we were unable to find anyone who would testify to witnessing the initiation. Leslie did not give names, and the one witness who told us the truth was petrified of going into court, afraid she would later be killed. Dillon Cody won the case by showing the low character of Leslie Meeks. By the time he got through with his cross-examination, she had contradicted 218

herself repeatedly. The jury became just as disgusted with her as we were. Even the prosecution wriggled and squirmed uncomfortably when Leslie told some of her whoppers. Ron Chambers made an excellent impression, as did Bob. The jury deliberated only two hours and came back with big grins and a not-guilty verdict. After that, the civil lawsuit vanished silently as well. We told Bob and Ron and Pat the truth of what happened. Pat was so mortified at being lied to by her former “friend,” Leslie, and then being caught trying to aid in a wrongful lawsuit that she quit her job and moved to another state. Her actions might have had something to do with a little visit I paid her, hinting that we might file a counteraction against her for false testimony, filing an erroneous police report,

intentional

infliction

of mental

distress,

and

a few

dozen other things that I gleefully rattled off. Ron told Leslie that he was considering filing charges against her as well, and she left the city shortly after Pat. As for Bob, there was a happier ending than might be

expected. Naturally, he was emotionally traumatized by the incident, and the scars will last a long time. However, a friend of Dillon’s was a columnist for the paper and got interested in the case. Usually, when a person is exonerated ofa charge, or a civil lawsuit is dropped, the papers mention it only briefly, if at all. In most instances, the arrest is front-page news, complete with pictures, while the release is a two-line blurb be-

hind

the box

scores.

Dillon’s

friend

changed

that. He

devoted his entire column to Bob’s release, stressing how this

fine, upstanding young business executive had been so cruelly treated and maligned by a drug-abusing girl who only wanted a fast buck. Bob’s story caught the public attention enough that Bob was even interviewed on all three local news channels. His plight served to advertise Bob Williams’s con219

tracting company, and before he knew it, Bob was inundated

with brand-new clientele. The last I heard from Bob Williams was a Christmas card last year. It said, “Merry Christmas, Paula! And it is, thanks to you! Just want you to know that I got a big contract for building a school in Ardmore, Oklahoma. My men and I have already been there and set up the temporary site, including portable potties ... which we fondly call Leslies. Other workers think we’re strange when we say, ‘I’ve got to go visit Leslie,’ but we know what we mean. And it’s so nice to be on

the giving end, for a change...”

220

At age thirty-three, author PAULA BOLIN got a whole new life by answering a help-wanted ad for a private investigator. After three months, she had developed enough competence to open her own agency, now in its sixteenth year of operation. During those years, she has been threatened,

attacked, kidnapped, and poisoned. Yet she remains undeterred. She is ably assisted in her investigations by her three sons.

VIP)

ISBN

0-533-11113-7

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