My Dark Places - James Ellroy [94]
John Purvis was released from prison. The Fort Lauderdale cops popped the real Paul Serio. Serio contradicted Daddy Beckett’s account of the Hamway snuff and laid all the guilt on Daddy. Serio’s account was worthless. Daddy Beckett was exempt from prosecution.
John Purvis joined his mother and lawyer on the Phil Donahue show. Donahue screened some lively footage. It was Daddy Beckett’s taped confession to the Fort Lauderdale cops.
There’s Daddy Beckett. He’s showing the cops how he strangled Sue Hamway. There’s Daddy Beckett—exempt from prosecution. Daddy walked on the Stewart caper. Daddy breezed on Sue Hamway and her baby.
Robbie Beckett saw the show in Folsom Prison. He saw Daddy Beckett stage the Hamway snuff with true brio. He saw Daddy’s eyes. He knew he was reliving the moment he killed Tracy.
Robbie called Bill Stoner and told him he wanted to talk. Stoner and Dale Davidson flew up to Folsom. Robbie gave them a formal statement and agreed to testify against his father. He told them he wouldn’t piss backwards this time. Stoner and Davidson believed him.
Davidson drew up a warrant. It charged Robert Wayne Beckett with the murder of Tracy Lea Stewart. Stoner located Daddy Beckett in Las Vegas. He called in a Vegas PD fugitive team and arrested him in his front yard.
Daddy wanted to cut a deal. Stoner told him to get fucked. Daddy saw a judge. The judge said no bail. The L.A. courts were brutally backlogged. The cocksucker wouldn’t get to trial before 1995. Stoner was daydreaming a lot. He was seeing things fast and bright. He was spending lots of time with his dead women.
He was exhausted. He was retiring next month. A funny little thought kept running through his head.
He wasn’t sure he could give up the chase completely.
IV
GENEVA HILLIKER
You’re poised to run. You’ve got time and stealth on your side. Time favors runners. Their tracks disappear. You can’t tell how they hid before they vanished.
You don ’t want me to know. Your secret life was designed to shut certain men out. You ran from men and to men and cut yourself down to nothing. You possessed runner’s guile and wore runner’s camouflage. Your runner’s passion killed you.
You can ’t run from me. I ran from you for too long. This is where I force a runner’s confrontation.
It’s our time now.
14
I flew out to L.A. to see my mother’s murder file. My motives were ambiguous at best.
It was March ’94. Jean Ellroy was 35 years and 9 months dead. I was 46 years old.
I was living in high-line Connecticut. I had a big house like the ones I used to break into. I flew out a day early and got a suite at the Mondrian Hotel. I wanted to hit the file with a clear head and a cold heart.
It started six weeks back. My friend Frank Girardot called me. He said he was writing a piece on old San Gabriel Valley murders. The piece would be published in the San Gabriel Valley Tribune and the Pasadena Star-News. It would spotlight five unsolved killings—my mother’s included. It would spotlight the L.A. Sheriff’s Unsolved Unit.
Frank would view my mother’s file. He would read the reports and see the crime scene photos. He would see Jean Ellroy dead.
It hit me immediately. It hit me hard and fast and on two distinct levels.
I had to see the file. I had to write about the experience and publish the piece in a major magazine. It would stir up publicity for my next novel.
I called my editor at GQ and pitched him. He jumped on the idea and talked to his boss. The boss green-lighted me. I called Frank Girardot and asked him to brace his men at Sheriff’s Unsolved. Frank contacted Sergeant Bill McComas and Sergeant Bill Stoner. They said I could view the file.
I made travel arrangements. The big L.A. earthquake hit and diverted me for weeks. The Hall of Justice was condemned. Sheriff’s Homicide moved out. Their files were stuck in transit. The delay gave me some time to dance with the redhead.
I knew it was time to confront her. An old photograph told me why.
My wife found the picture