Beyond This Point Are Monsters (11 page)

Please help me find my son.

Devon put the sheet of paper back on the desk very carefully as if it were contaminated material. Then she followed Leo into the kitchen. The room had been used recently. There was a pot of coffee on the stove, the heat turned low under it, and on the work counter of the sink half a head of lettuce, two slices of bread curling a little at the edges, and an opened jar of peanut butter with a knife stuck in it. It was an ordinary table knife, blunt-tipped and dull-edged, but it may have reminded Mrs. Osborne, as it did Devon, of another more deadly knife, and she had fled the memory.

“It looks as though she started to make a sandwich,” Leo said, “and something interrupted her—the doorbell maybe, or the telephone.”

“She told us she was too tired to eat, that she wanted just to rest.”

“Then we'd better check the bedrooms. Which is hers?”

“I don't know. She keeps changing.”

The front bedroom had a window on the courtyard protected by iron grillwork and framed with bougainvillea blossoms that fluttered in the slightest breeze like bits of scarlet tissue paper. It was fully furnished, but it had an air of abandonment about it as though the people who really belonged there had long since left the premises. The closet door was partly open and inside were half a dozen large neatly stacked cartons with Salvation Army printed in red marking pencil on each one. Devon recognized the printing as her own and the cartons as those she'd packed with Robert's stuff and given to Mrs. Osborne to deliver to the Salvation Army.

The other bedroom was occupied. Its sleeper lay face down across the bed, her body wrapped in a faded blue silk housecoat. Her arms were bent at the elbows and both hands were pressed against her head as if they were trying to protect the places where the hair was thinning. On the bureau was a Styrofoam wig stand holding the orderly curls Mrs. Osborne showed to the public. The blue hat she'd worn in court had fallen or been thrown on the carpet and her ribbon knit dress hung limply across a chair like an abandoned skin.

Both windows were shut tight. Suspended in the still air was the faint sour odor of regret, of little sins and failures mildewing in closets and damp forgotten corners.

“Mrs. Osborne,” Devon said, but it sounded wrong, as if this silent helpless woman was a stranger with no right to the name.

“Mrs. Osborne, answer me. It's Devon. Are you all right?”

The stranger stirred, disclaiming the identity, protest­ing the invasion of her privacy when Devon leaned over and touched her temple and felt the pulse in her thin white wrist. The pulse was slow but as steady as the ticking of a clock. On the night table beside the bed there was a half-empty bottle of yellow capsules. The label identified them as Nembutal, three-quarter grain, and the prescriber as the Osbornes' family doctor in Boca de Rio.

“Do you hear me, Mrs. Osborne?”

“Go—way.”

“Did you take any pills?”

“Pills.”

“How many pills did you take?”

“How—? Two.”

“Is that all? Just two pills?”

“Two.”

“When did you take them?”

“Tired. Go away.”

“Did you take them when
you came home at noon?”

“Noon.”

“You took two pills at noon, is that right?”

“Yes.
Yes.
”

Leo opened the windows, and the incoming air smelled of a forgotten harvest, overripe oranges whose thickened pockmarked skins covered pulp that had gone dry and fibrous. Mrs. Osborne turned over on her side, knees bent and hands over her head like a fetus trying to ward off the pain of birth.

“If she's leveling with me, she took only a hundred milligrams,” Devon said. “The stuff should be wearing off pretty soon. I'll stay with her until it does.”

“I'll stay too if it will help.”

“It won't. She'd be upset if she woke up and found you here. You'd better go back to the courthouse and tell Mr. Ford what happened.”

“I don't know what happened.”

“Well, tell him as much as you do know—that she's all right but she won't be able to testify, at least not this afternoon.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ford
addressed the bench.

“Your Honor, the testimony of this witness, Ernest Valenzuela, has presented a number of problems. Since he is no longer employed by the sheriff's department, the files on the case are not available to him. However, I ob­tained permission for Mr. Valenzuela to refresh his mem­ory by going over the files in the presence of a deputy and making notes for his appearance here today. I also ar­ranged for a deputy to bring into the courtroom certain reports and pieces of evidence which I consider vital to this hearing.”

“These reports and pieces of evidence,” Gallagher said, “are they now in your possession?”

“Yes, your Honor.”

“All right, proceed.”

Valenzuela took the oath: the testimony he was about to give in the matter now pending before the court would be the truth and the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Ford said, “State your name, please.”

“Ernest Valenzuela.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Valenzuela?”

“209 Third Street, Boca de Rio.”

“Are you currently employed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where and in what capacity?”

“I'm a salesman with the America West Insurance Company.”

“How long have you held your present position?”

“Six months.”

“Before that, what was the nature of your employ­ment?”

“I was a deputy in the Boca de Rio division of the sheriff's department of San Diego County.”

“For how long?”

“Since 1955 when I got out of the army, a little more than twelve years.”

“Describe briefly the situation in the sheriff's depart­ment in Boca de Rio on Friday, October thirteen, 1967.”

“The boss, Lieutenant Scotler, was on sick leave and I was in charge.”

“What happened that Friday night, Mr. Valenzuela?”

“A call came in from the Osborne ranch at a quarter to eleven asking for assistance in searching for Mr. Osborne. He'd gone out earlier in the evening to look for his dog and failed to return. I picked up my partner, Larry Bismarck, at his house and we drove out to the ranch. By this time the search for Mr. Osborne had been going on for about an hour, led by Mr. Estivar, the foreman, and his son, Cruz. Mr. Osborne hadn't been located but there was consider­able blood on the floor of the mess hall. I immediately phoned headquarters in San Diego and asked for rein­forcements. Meanwhile my partner had found small frag­ments of glass on the floor of the mess hall and part of a shirt sleeve caught on a yucca spike just outside the main door. The shirt sleeve also had blood on it.”

“Did you take any samples of blood?”

“No, sir. I left that to the experts.”

“What did the experts do with the samples of blood they collected?”

“Sent them up to the police lab in Sacramento for anal­ysis.”

“This is the usual procedure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And at a later date you received a report of that analy­sis?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ford turned to the bench. “Your Honor, I hereby sub­mit a copy of the full report for you to read at your conven­ience. It is, naturally, detailed and technical, and in the interests of saving time—not to mention the taxpayers' money—I suggest Mr. Valenzuela be allowed to give in his own words the facts essential to this hearing.”

“Granted.”

“I will give Mr. Valenzuela a copy of the report also, in case his memory needs further refreshing.”

Ford took two manila envelopes out of his briefcase and handed one to Valenzuela. Valenzuela accepted his reluc­tantly, as though he didn't need or didn't want his memory refreshed.

“The report from the police lab,” Ford said, “deals with blood samples taken from four main areas—the floor of the mess hall, the piece of shirt sleeve caught on the yucca spike, the butterfly knife found by Jaime in the pumpkin field, the mouth of the dead dog. Is that correct, Mr. Valenzuela?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let's take them in the order mentioned. First, the blood on the floor of the mess hall.”

“Two types were found in considerable quantity, type B positive and type AB negative. Both are uncommon types, AB negative, for example, being found in only five percent of the population.”

“What about the blood found on the piece of shirt sleeve?”

“Again there were two types. The smaller amount matched some of the blood on the floor, type B, and the rest was type O. This is the commonest type, found in approximately forty-five percent of the population.”

“What blood type was found on the knife?”

“AB negative.”

“And in the dog's mouth?”

“Type B positive.”

“Did the amount of blood found and the fact that it was of three different types lead you to any conclusions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Such as?”

“Three persons were involved in a fight. Two of them were injured seriously, the third injured to a lesser extent.”

“The type O blood found on the shirt sleeve belonged to this third man?”

“Yes, sir.”

From his briefcase Ford took a clear plastic bag con­taining a piece of blue and green plaid material. “This is the sleeve referred to?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I offer it in evidence.”

A few of the spectators leaned forward in their seats to get a better look, but they soon sat back. Last year's blood appeared no more interesting than last year's coffee stains.

“Now, Mr. Valenzuela, tell us what facts were estab­lished by the contents of the plastic bag.”

“The sleeve belongs to one of thousands of similar shirts sold by Sears, Roebuck through their catalog and retail stores. The shirt is a hundred percent cotton and comes in four color combinations and in sizes small, medium, large. Price in the catalog is $3.95. The style num­ber and lot number are contained in the report of my investigation.”

“In your estimation, Mr. Valenzuela, how many shirts of that style, color and size were sold by Sears Roebuck last year and the year before?”

“Thousands.”

“Did you try to pinpoint the sale of that particular shirt to one particular person?”

“Yes, sir. We couldn't do it, though.”

“But you were able to ascertain some facts about the man who wore the shirt, were you not?”

“Yes, sir. He was small for one thing, probably less than five foot six, a hundred thirty-five pounds. A number of hairs adhering to the inside of the sleeve cuff indicate that he was from one of the darker but not Negroid races.”

“In view of the proximity of the Mexican border and the fact that a large percentage of the population in the area is Mexican or of Mexican descent, there is consider­able likelihood that the owner of the shirt was Mexican?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn't examine the sleeve cuff yourself, did you, Mr. Valenzuela?”

“Just superficially. The real examination was done at the police lab in Sacramento.”

“Was anything significant discovered in addition to the hairs?”

“Quite a bit of dirt and oil.”

“What kind of dirt?”

“Particles of sandy alkaline soil of the type found in irrigated-desert sections of the state like ours. There was a high nitrogen content in the soil, indicating the recent addition of a commercial fertilizer which is used on most ranches in the area.”

“And the oil mixed with the dirt?”

“It was sebum, the secretion of human sebaceous glands. This secretion is usually abundant in younger and more active people and decreases with age.”

“So a picture begins to take shape of the man who wore the shirt,” Ford said. “He was small and dark, probably Mexican. He worked on one of the ranches in the area. He was young. The blood on his shirt was type O. And he got into a fight in which at least two other people were in­volved. Would it be possible to reconstruct this man's part in the fight?”

“I think so. The evidence seems to indicate that in the first stage of the fight he was hurt enough to bleed and that the left sleeve of his shirt was torn. He decided to escape before things got any rougher. As he ran out the door the torn sleeve caught on one of the spikes of the yucca plant and ripped completely off.”

“And the other two men?”

“They finished the fight,” Valenzuela said dryly.

“What can you tell us about these two men?”

“As I indicated earlier, they had different blood types, B and AB. Both of them bled considerably, especially AB.”

“On the floor of the mess hall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were samples of blood scraped off the floor and trans­ported to the police lab in Sacramento?”

“No, sir. A section of the floor itself was removed and sent up there. This method allows a more precise analysis.”

“To simplify matters I will refer to each of the three men by their blood types. Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Valenzuela?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then O would be the dark young man who wore the green and blue plaid shirt and left the fight early after sustaining a superficial wound.”

“Yes.”

“Now let's turn our attention to B. What do we know about him?”

“Traces of type B blood were found in the dog's mouth.”

“Robert Osborne's dog, Maxie?”

“Yes.”

“Since it's highly unlikely, if not impossible, that Rob­ert Osborne would have been attacked by his own dog, we know first of all that B was not Robert Osborne.”

“There is other evidence to that effect.”

“Such as?”

“Bits of human tissue, skin and hair found in the dog's mouth indicate that B was dark-skinned and dark-haired. Mr. Osborne was neither. In addition, a small shred of cloth was caught between two of the dog's teeth. The cloth was heavy-duty navy-blue cotton twill of the kind used to make men's Levis. When Mr. Osborne left the house he was wearing gray gabardine slacks. In fact, he didn't own any Levis. He wore lighter-weight, lighter-colored work clothes because of the heat in the valley.”

“Getting back to the dog for a moment, when and where was it found?”

“It was found the following Monday morning, October sixteen, near the corner where the Osborne ranch road joins the road leading to the main highway. The exact spot is out of range of the map on the display board.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“Several children from the Polk ranch, which adjoins Mr. Bishop's, were on their way to meet the school bus when they spotted the dog's body under a creosote bush. They told the bus driver and he called us.”

“Was an autopsy performed on the dog?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell us briefly the pertinent facts.”

“Multiple fractures of the skull and vertebrae indicated that the dog was struck and fatally injured by a moving vehicle such as a car.”

“Or a truck.”

“Or a truck.”

Ford consulted his notes again. “So we had definite knowledge that the man we have called B was dark-skinned and dark-haired, that he wore Levis, that he was bitten by the dog. What else?”

“He owned, or at least used, the butterfly knife.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“The blood on the knife belonged to the other man, AB.”

“Do you know who that other man was?”

“Yes, sir. Robert Osborne.”

Though there was no one in the room who hadn't an­ticipated the answer, reaction to the spoken name seemed to be one of group surprise, simultaneous intakes of breath, sudden stirrings and rustlings and whispers.

“Mr. Valenzuela, tell the court why you're so sure the third man was Robert Osborne.”

“The pieces of glass found on the mess-hall floor were identified by Dr. Paul Jarrett, an ophthalmologist, as frag­ments of contact lenses he had prescribed for Robert Os­borne during the last week of May 1967.”

“Dr. Jarrett's report is on file as part of the record?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Without going into technicalities, can you tell the court to what degree contact lenses are distinc­tive?”

“They're not absolutely unique the way fingerprints are, for example. But each lens has to be fitted to each eye with such precision that it's highly unlikely a mistake in identification could be made.”

“Since you've brought up the subject of fingerprints, Mr. Valenzuela, let's pursue it. In reading your report of the case I was struck by the small amount of attention given to fingerprints. Will you explain this?”