Bannerman's Law (14 page)

Henry reacted as she had hoped. He ridiculed her pre
sumption that she could succeed where psychiatrists had failed. He chastised her for breaking the rules. He said all
that she had accomplished was the punishment of Nellie
Dameon and a substantial fine for herself.

“
Punishment
?”
In her mind, she thanked Henry Dun
ville for using that word. ”I can't allow that, Henry
,”
she said.

“
Neither can I
,”
said Alan Weinberg who appeared at
the window behind Henry and Ruiz, and placed his arms
around their shoulders.

All the rest of that week, they stayed close to Nellie
Dameon. They attended no classes. They brought her, on
the first night, to their suite in that part of the ch
a
teau she
had never before seen. She seemed uncomfortable there.
She would not speak, not even to Barbara.

A phone call came from Ca
r
leton, the younger, insisting that this foolishness stop at once. Henry had reached him,
complained to him, threatened to use force. Carleton,
aware that force would surely result in loss of life, forbade
it but he did demand an explanation from Alan Weinberg.

Weinberg was ready for him. He told Carleton of Hen
ry's reputation. That he had abused and mistreated mem
bers in the past. That he mocked them and played cruel
tricks on them. That he, and the lesbian, Ruiz, were known
to demand sexual favors of female staff.

He had heard no such things. They were strictly
guesses, based on
Weinberg's
intuitive assessment of
Henry, intended to persuade Carleton that his concern for Nellie's well-being had substance, if only in his own mind.
But the long silence on Carleton
’
s end, the lack of argu
ment, convinced him that his intuition was at least in part
correct. Carleton, disgust now evident in his voice, said
that he would speak to his half-brother and that he would
deal with this situation on his return ten days hence. He
would instruct Henry, in the meantime, to avoid any esca
lation of tensions. He asked Weinberg to do the same.
Weinberg said that he would as long as Henry and his
guards kept their distance.
It was Weinberg
’
s impression, after hanging up the phone, that Carleton had been told nothing of last Sunday's intruder.

The impasse went on. They returned Nellie to her
quarter
s—t
o her world, they now realize
d—b
ut still she
did not speak. They watched movies with her, dined with
her, and they took her
each¯
morning to her magic bench,
retiring thereafter to a respectful distance. Nellie's passiv
ity was such that Barbara almost began to wonder whether their conversation of the preceding Monday night had been
a dream. Or, possibly, as Alan Weinberg suggested, the
old woman's periods of lucidity were rare. That, he said,
might serve to explain how she'd gone undetected so long.
But on Friday afternoon, as Barbara selected a film, she
spoke.

“
What day is it
?”
she asked softly
.

“
Nellie
?”
Barbara, startled, rushed to her side.

“
I've been away
,”
she said.

“
Are you
...
all right
?”

She nodded, and smiled.
“
We went sailing
,”
she said.

“
Um
.
.
.
who did
?”
Weinberg asked.

The old woman turned at the sound of his voice. She
saw the mask of bandages, the single eye. Her tiny chest
heaved as if she might scream.

Barbara reached for her, taking her head, turning it so
that Nellie looked into her eyes.
“
That's Alan
,”
she told
her.
“
He's been with us
...
since you left
.”
Barbara
threw a glance at her husband. Her expression said
I forgot
to tell you this part.

She stayed with them, in the present, all that evening.
Alan did his best to put her at ease, a task made
more
difficult because she could not see his face.
But
she
could
hear his voice, kept low and soft with a slight
German
accent, and she could see the affectionate touching between her two visitors.

Mostly he listened, as Barbara, in bits and pieces, got
her to repeat many of the things she had said before.
Alan pressed her only onc
e—o
n the subject of Ca
r
leton
Dunville's
saf
e—a
nd she promptly withdrew. Thereafter, he resolved to say little lest he disturb what he thought to
be the delicate thread of her sanity. Rather, he leafed
through her scrapbooks, pretending interest in them at first
but the interest quickly became genuine. He asked her,
during a silence, if he might see one of her early films.
He pointed
t
o a publicity still from
The Hun Within.
Bar
bara had mentioned that title, joking that it could have
been about him within his mask. Nellie Da
m
eon seemed
pleased that he knew it. She would try to find it for him,
sh
e
said.

The next morning, seated on her bench, she was gone again. Barbara wondered where this time. Perhaps to a
premiere i
n
New York, going to Jack & Charley's 21
Club afterward, getting a standing ovation as she entered,
meeting Dorothy Parker there. Perhaps even a weekend
tryst with one of the great screen lovers. Valentino or
John Gilbert.

They stayed with her all that day and through Saturday
night. She ate, dressed and undressed without help but in
the manner of a sleepwalker.

One Sunday morning, as they prepared to return with
her to her bench, Henry Dunville appeared outside the
door to Nellie's rooms. In place of his normal state of
seething t
r
uculence, Henry appeared conciliatory and a bit breathless. He explained his behavior, through a door that
remained closed, to a suspicious Alan Weinberg. Young
Dr. Feldma
n
, he said, was at the gate demanding to see
another of the members and threatening a court order if
he was denied entrance. He asked that Nellie be allowed
to go to her bench as usual while they stayed out of sight.
She would be returned to them as soon as the doctor
departed.

Alan Weinberg, of course, refused. They would stay
together, he said, but they would remain in her quarters.
He could not see the smile that spread across Henry's face.

Nearly five hours passed before he learned the truth.
There had been no visit from Dr. Feldman. But the young
girl, Lisa, had come again. She had been captured,
drugged, questioned, her apartment looted. Henry, pleased
with himself, could not resist gloating. He sent Ruiz to
get Weinberg.

Within an hour after that, the girl, Lisa Benedict, was
dead. Henry Dunville had no eyes. Two guards had been taken. The safe had been entered. By late afternoon an accommodation, however tenuous, had been reached with
Ca
r
leton Dunville the younger.

Thirty-six hours would pass before Alan Weinberg learned what had been done with the body of the young
girl who had heard Nellie Da
m
eon speak and who had
wanted nothing more than to hear her speak again.

It was not a bad idea, he supposed. Deflecting blame
on Los Angeles
's
latest serial killer. Still, that man,
Hickey, had butchered her. It sickened him. And he saw
in his wife's eyes that one day, given a chance, she would
gladly kill Hickey for what he had done, and Carleton
Dunville as well, if the idea had been his.

₁₃

His full name was S
umn
er Todd Dommerich. He liked
having three last names. It made him feel special. What
he didn't like was being called just Todd. It was too close to Toad. Toad is what his parents used to call him when
they were drunk or high. Before he made them stop
laughing.

Sumner Dommerich had been watching from his car
when the two women arrived at Lisa Benedict's apartment house. He had been there since seven, parked near the
Laundromat across the street and several buildings down
on Alameda. On his passenger
seat, he'd
brought a load
of wash and a bottle of Surf in case anyone noticed him
and wondered. Not that he th
o
ught anyone would, espe
cially. Most people looked right through him. Nor could
he explain, even to himself, why he felt he should be there.
All he knew was that he fel
t
badly about Lisa Benedict.

His first thought, when the two women came in their
blue Chevrolet, was that they were reporters. It was about
time. The morning before, on Monday, he'd waite
d
for t
hree hours expecting to see policemen and film crews
come swarming. It was that way for all the others. But
here there was nobody. Nothing.

Now, two women, but they didn't act like reporters
after all. No press card on their visor. Dressed in sweaters
and jeans. No camera. And one of them had keys.

They were inside for perhaps twenty minutes when the
two men in gray suits pulled up in a mustard-colored Olds-
mobile. The men went first to the super's apartment,
showed him their wallets, talked to him for a while, then
climbed the stairs that the two women had taken. When
they got to the door, Domme
ri
ch saw the older one raise
a hand, silencing the other. They stood there, heads
cocked, as if listening. Then the younger one snuck back
down, carefully, no noise, and made a call on his radio.
He crept back up and the older one opened the door, very slowly. They disappeared inside. Three minutes later the swarm finally started.

Two, then three police cruisers, lights, sirens, all from
different directions. Screeching in. Cops running up the
stairs. Dommerich wanted to run himself, but he didn't.

Two women, one in handcuffs, coming out. The little
one yelling at one of the suits. Tries to kick him. Two uniformed cops pick her up, carry her down the stairs.
Another cop car comes, this one unmarked, two detectives
in it.

The tall woman is arguing with one of the gray suits.
The younger suit is carrying two purses, going through
them. A crowd gathering, mostly black, starting to boo the
way they're treating the little one. Two of the
u
niforms are holding up their hands, trying to move them back.

Su
mn
er Dommerich stepped from his car and moved closer, joining two white women with shopping carts who were watching from across the street. He could see better
now but he couldn't hear. And the little one looked famil
iar. He crossed Alameda, pretending not to see the police
man who waved him back.

The detectives and the gray suits were in a huddle. The
suits were angry but the detectives seemed almost amused.
One of the uniforms said something to his partner and the
partner had to stifle a laugh. Dommerich moved closer.

Now one of the suits, the older one, turned to the
woman.
.
.
who looked like Lisa, he realized
.
.
.
and,
sure enough, he called her Miss Benedict. What he said
was
“
Who are you, Miss Benedict
?”

It struck Dommerich as a stupid question for anyone
who had eyes, not to mention her purse, but then he over
heard two of the uniforms.

”
.
.
.
knocked the two feds on their asses
,”
one
said, smirking.

“
That little one? The sister
?”

The first uniform nodded toward the two agents.
“
They
say they flashed. The sister and her friend say they didn't.
So the sister takes them down and lays a bread knife
across one of their throats until he yells he's FBI
.”

“
No shit
,”
said the other appreciatively and then, to
Dommerich,
“
Would you move back, sir
.”

Dommerich melted into the crowd. He worked his way
to a new point of vantage. Now, at the mustard-colored Oldsmobile, they were taking the handcuffs off Lisa Bene
dict's sister. Freed, she spun on them, cursing. They
backed away.
“
Don't push your luck
,”
he heard the older one say.

The taller woman, whom Dommerich heard them call
Miss Fa
rr
ell, pulled Lisa's sister toward the blue Chevrolet. Lisa's sister argued. She wasn't finished upstairs, she
said. Another car pulled up. A sign on the visor said
Los
Angeles Times.
The one named Farrell saw it.
“
Now
,”
he
hissed.
“
Right now
.”

They started their engine. Across the street, down a
little, a second engine whirred and caught. Dommerich had
not noticed, especially, but one of th
e
uniforms did. He looked, squinting, at a silver Honda that was idling at the
far curb a few yards up from his own Volkswagen
hatchback.

“
Isn't that Joe Hickey
?”
the uniform asked his partner.

“
Oh. yeah
,”
the partner answered, frowning.
Domme
ri
ch thought he saw contempt on both their
faces. Probably another reporter.

A police cruiser moved, allowing the blue Chevrolet to
back out onto Alameda. Dommerich was sorry to see them
go. He'd like to have told the little one that her sister was
nice. That he
'
d seen her almost every morning, jogging down Alameda, two miles, almost to Watts, where she
bought a bran muffin, sometimes a bagel with cream
cheese, and then she
'
d run back. He saw that she smiled
and waved at people while she ran and so, a lot of morn
ings, he would go for a walk where she'd have to pass
him on the way.

She didn't smile at him the first time. That made him
feel bad. But she did the time after that because he decided he'd try smiling first. It worked. After that, it worked every
time. Even when he pretended to be looking the other way, she'd say
“
Hi
!”
and he'd say
“
Oh, hi
!”
right back.

And he'd feel good all the way home.

He'd like to have told her sister that. He'd like to have told her that he would never have hurt her. That it wasn't
him.

Su
mn
er Todd Dommerich walked back to his car.

“
Smooth, Ca
rl
a
.”
Molly Fa
rr
ell scowled as she
straightened her wheels and pressed the accelerator.
“
So
much for keeping a low profile
.”

“
They could have identified themselves
.”
The smaller
woman folded her arms, muttering. Molly caught the
word
assholes.

Molly had to agree, although she was in no mood to admit it. Walking in, not knocking, pointing guns at a
woman who was hardly likely to be the Campus Killer
and was almost certain to be a friend or relative, ignoring her request for identification.

For all she knew, and all Carla knew, they could have
been the ones who murdered Lisa, using the keys they'd
taken from her, back for another search of the apartment.

Molly let out a sigh. Now who's kiddin
g
who? She knew they were FBI the instant they showed in
the doorway. Those suits, those haircuts, carrying those
dumb little Detective Specials. Coming in, one high, one
low. She could have, she supposed, let out a ladylike
squeal so they wouldn't wonder why she wasn't afraid.
Well
.
.
.
now they're wondering about a lot more than
that. Such as who is this hundred-pound redhead who
ducks into a closet when she hears them at the door and
then, with a kick and a kitchen knife, takes two armed
men from behind.

“
You think they'll run a make on us
?”
Ca
rl
a asked,
looking ahead.

“
Wouldn't you
?”

Carla shrugged.
“
Maybe they'll be too embarrassed
.”
A tiny smile.

“
Trust me
.”

The older one, Scholl, is probably calling it in right
now, she thought, while the other starts his search of
Lisa's apartment. The first thing he'll do is check the mes
sages on that machine. He'll assume that she must have
played it but he'll have DiDi Fene
r
ty's name. He'll look
for her phone number in Lisa's address book and that's
when he'll notice that the book, among other things, seems
to be missing. He'll know they didn't take it, having
searched their purses. But at least one question had been
answered. Th
e
FBI had not been there before. Not them, not the police either.

“
What else is missing
?”
she asked Carla.

“
Birthday presents
,”
she answered. Her manner be
came distant again.
''A
Nikon I gave her last year. A tape
recorder from three years ago. Some jewelry
.”

“
Jewelry? You're sure
?”

“
All her gold. Two chains, two bracelets, some ear
rings, and a pearl necklace. He didn't touch the junk
.”

Molly wasn't sure why she was surprised. She'd had it
in her head that Lisa might have known the killer. Or
might have suspected him. Might even have been writing about him. Why else would someone come into that apart
ment and destroy or take everything that might have held
notes? Even to the extent of looking through all her books.
The recorder might have held oral notes. The Nikon, unde
veloped film. But why the jewelry?

She'd read an article once about serial killers. She knew that they often kept souvenirs. Usually grisly ones such as
fingers, ears, nipples. There was a man named Ke
m
per,
another Califo
rni
an, who kept his mother's head for a
week and used it as a dart board.

But they were not, as a rule, thieves. A piece of jewelry
might serve for a souvenir but, she felt sure, it would
probably be something the victim was wearing at the time
he killed her. Not jewelry from her home. And not just
the expensive pieces.

Better, she thought, not to ask these questions aloud
just yet. Or to start Ca
rl
a wondering who else might have
wanted her sister dead. She's enough of a time bomb as
it is
.

Carla poked her.
“
You can't stay mad
,”
she said.