My Dark Places - James Ellroy [158]
She was out there. I felt her. I spent a month in calm anticipation. I bypassed the Blonde and the Swarthy Man. She was out there. People would call and say they knew her.
Bill was back in Orange County. He was working with Joe Walker. They were gearing up for names. The show would give us an unprecedented shitload of names. Local names. Names nationwide. Informants’ names and potential Blonde and Swarthy Man names. Names to verify and run for criminal records. Names to contact and discard and scrutinize and compare to other names and dismiss from the standpoint of pure lunacy.
Names.
Her ex-lovers. Her ex-colleagues. Her ex-confidantes. The people who glimpsed her flight pattern.
Names.
Bill was ready for them. He gave Joe Walker a backup mandate.
Check official records. Follow paper trails and raid data banks. Take us from Tunnel City to El Monte.
Joe said he’d check marriage and divorce records. Bill said he’d check directory listings. He said we should go to Wisconsin. I said, Not yet. He wanted to jump my claim. I wanted to plunder our new names and reinforce it.
I watched the show at home. Bill watched it at the studio phone center. Louie Danoff joined him. They hung out with some cops from other segments.
The setup was space age. A dozen operators worked the phones and typed their tips on computer screens simultaneously. The cops could read the screens and listen to hot calls on headsets. Tipsters called fast. They saw the show. They recognized suspects. They recognized lost loved ones or old acquaintances. They called because a segment tugged their heartstrings. They called because a segment fucked with their heads.
I watched the show with Helen. The Jean Ellroy segment was boffo. It was the best show since Robbie Beckett Live. Robert Stack narrated. I saw him and laughed out loud. I caddied for him a few times at Bel-Air Country Club. The dramatic scenes were vivid. The director hit a nice balance. He understood viewer demographics. The murder was spooky and no more. It would not offend old people or shock potential tipsters unduly. I was good. Bill was good. Robert Stack stressed the Airtek connection. The proper information went out. The proper pictures of my mother and the Swarthy Man went out. The story was simply and properly told.
The phones rang.
A man from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, called. He said the Swarthy Man looked like a guy named Bob Sones. Bob murdered his wife, Sherry, and committed suicide. It was late ’58. The crime occurred in North Hollywood. A man from Centralia, Washington, called. He said his father was the Swarthy Man. His father was 6′6″ and weighed 240 pounds. His father carried a gun and lots of ammunition. A man from Savage, Minnesota, called. He said the Swarthy Man looked like his father. His father lived in El Monte back then. His father was abusive. His father served prison time. His father was a gambler and a skirt chaser. A man from Dallas, Texas, called. He said the Swarthy Man looked familiar. He looked like his neighbor a long time ago. The guy had a blond wife. He drove a blue-and-white Buick. A man from Rochester, New York, called. He said his grandfather was the Swarthy Man. Gramps lived in a nursing home. The man supplied the address and phone number. A woman from Sacramento, California, called. She said the Swarthy Man looked like a local doctor. The doctor lived with his mother. The doctor hated women. The doctor was a vegetarian. A woman from Lakeport, California, called. She said the Swarthy Man looked like her ex-husband. Her ex chased women. She didn’t know where he was now. A woman from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, called. She said her sister was murdered. She said she read a lot of crime novels. A woman from Covina, California, called. She said her sister was raped and strangled in El Monte. It happened in 1992. A man from Huntingdon Beach, California,