One to the Wolves, On the Trail of a Killer (4 page)

“There’s no good reason for a non-smoking, middle-aged woman to suffer a stroke,”
one doctor said accusingly. “You are going to have to learn to cope better with stress
and to stop letting life’s little problems become major issues for you.”

The only obvious after-effects of the “TIA,” as the doctors were now calling it, was
that my smile was lopsided and my left hand didn’t type as fast as my right one. However
it had triggered neurological problems. I would get weak and nauseous, see flashing
psychedelic lights, and experience the sensation of plunging down an elevator shaft. 

The idea of going on the road in such a condition was terrifying, and for the first
time I found myself questioning whether it was worth it. I’d written a freaky book,
a book with no ending, an outpouring of grief and frustration and accusations of forms
of crime that police officers didn’t think existed. Why would anyone read such a book,
much less take it seriously? Why would they take
me
seriously when I appeared on their TV screens, even if I kept my chin down and crossed
my legs at the ankles? What if I blacked out on camera or my speech became garbled?
Viewers would think I was drunk.

A torrent of hopelessness swept over me and, like a child groping for a security blanket,
I reached out to our hometown psychic, Betty Muench.

Kait’s sister, Robin, had first visited Betty, without our knowledge, after reading
in the paper that Dung had stabbed himself. Robin wanted to know what had spurred
that action — grief or guilt?

Ignoring our skeptical reaction when she told us what she had done, she had handed
Don and me four single spaced typewritten pages that described Dung’s relationship
with Kait and some of the circumstances that led to the shooting.

That reading, which Betty had done without charge, contained information that was
new to us but much of which would later prove to be accurate. About Dung, it said,
“It is not as if he will have been the one to do this, but he will seem to know who
did it.”
Betty had since done several other readings for us, and Don and I had come to accept
the validity of her gift, even if we didn’t understand it.

Now I phoned her and said, “I have a question for you. I’ve written a book about Kait’s
murder and I need to know what the prospects are for its success.”

Betty asked me the name of the book, and I told her the title that the publisher had
selected. Then I sat and listened to the rattle of her typewriter as she appeared
to be taking dictation from some source that only she could hear.

After she completed the reading, she read it aloud:

QUESTION: WHAT IS THE POTENTIAL FOR LOIS’S BOOK,
WHO KILLED MY DAUGHTER?

ANSWER: There is this energy that shows that this work is to fulfill its purpose.
This will not have been only to find the murderer, but this will have also been a
tribute by this one mother to this one child, and this will go beyond this lifetime.

There will be in this a potential which will reach out to many people in many different
ways. There will be people who will find affinity in the loss of a child, and others
who will find affinity in the inappropriate behaviors of police and crime solvers.
There will come much attention to this aspect of the book all over the country, and
much will come out of that for the betterment of policemen all over.

There is much that Kait can say about all this energy that has been expended on her
behalf, and she will know that all is being done that can be done at this time.

There is an assurance in Kait that there will come this which will seem to put
the collar on the wolf
who will have been after her.
There will be this image of a kind of wild wolf with something on its neck as it howls
with its neck up in the air.
There is a sense of message which will show that there is knowing in her that this
will be done and that the wolf will come into forms of justice which Lois and all
her family and friends will bear witness to. There will be fear, and a mistake will
be made, and there will be in the minds of all sensible beings the knowing that the
efforts of Lois in this will have been the target for this justice.

There is a sense of relief and relaxation in Kait — much warmth and softness in her
now.

Mom, I love you. Look out for the walker, the innocent walker, who does more than
walk.

“I gather from this that Kait is still very much a part of the action,” Betty told
me. “She hasn’t moved on to other realms yet. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was standing
at your shoulder, watching you write your book.”

“I can believe that,” I said quietly.

For Betty didn’t know — nor did anyone else on this earth plane other than Don and
my editor — that the original title for my book had been
One to the Wolves.

The book hit the city of Albuquerque like a nuclear explosion. One bookstore that
had placed an order for one hundred copies sold them all within hours and frantically
wired the warehouse for another shipment. TV newscasts showed customers scrambling
for the last copies on the shelves, and newspaper headlines screamed “Sloppy Police
Work Frustrated Duncan” and “Mother Relentlessly Searches for the Awful Truth.”

“This book is sure to offend some readers,” said an article in the
Albuquerque Tribune.
“Albuquerque police are portrayed as a bunch of bureaucratic bunglers, the District
Attorney’s Office as uncaring prosecutors … Each time Arquette’s family uncovered
additional information that suggested her death was no accident, it would be turned
over to the police. But, Duncan wrote, the information never went anywhere because
police insisted the shooting was random.”

Initially the police declined to comment, saying they could not discuss the investigation
because it was on-going. A day or so later they changed their minds. The deputy chief
of investigations told reporters, “The case is still open, but there’s no active investigation.”
Asked whether he had read the book
,
he responded, “No, I don’t read fiction.” He said the police department stood by
their investigation as thorough and professional and “we checked out every lead there
was.”

There was also reaction to the book from the Vietnamese. When we took up residence
in the camper, we had subscribed to an answering service, and our voice mail contained
threats from people with Vietnamese accents. One was a woman whose observations about
our family were of such a personal nature that it was obvious that she had been coached
by somebody who knew us.

The promotion tour was launched in New York, and I made my TV debut on
Good Morning, America.
When I arrived at the studio I made the unsettling discovery that I would be sharing
the segment with members of New Mexico law enforcement who had been taped in advance
by the CBS affiliate in Albuquerque.

“Police say it is unlikely there will ever be another arrest,” said the narrator,
shown standing at the intersection where Kait was shot. “Police say they know who
killed Kaitlyn, but without reliable witnesses it’s a case that will not hold up in
court.”

The next face to fill the screen was that of a captain from APD.

“I think our people did an excellent job,” he said proudly. “The Vietnamese angle
was extensively looked into. We were aware of that soon after the homicide occurred.
We could find no tie to the homicide with any Vietnamese gang.”

Then, onto the screen popped the face of District Attorney Bob Schwartz.

“Did the police blow the investigation?” the reporter asked him.

“No,” Schwartz said. “This case was victimized by the witnesses in the case.” His
voice took on a note of sadness. “I have seen other parents who have suffered the
worst pain imaginable … they need to blame someone and they typically will blame the
system.”

“What do you want to say in response to what you just heard?” the hostess, Joan Lundon,
asked me as my face replaced Schwartz’s on the monitor.

In deference to Bill’s instructions to “take the high road,” I tried to respond diplomatically.

“When people in authority are backed to the wall it’s common for them to be defensive
about it,” I said. “Bob Schwartz, as far as I know, is an ethical man, but being in
the position he is as district attorney, all he had to go on was what was in the police
reports. I think there are things that Bob Schwartz wasn’t aware of.”

“Good luck to you, Lois Duncan.”

Mercifully it was over, and I knew in my heart that it had been a disaster. The last
thing I had expected was that on my very first interview I would be forced to respond
to statements from Albuquerque law enforcement. The police captain had made me seem
like a paranoid liar, alleging that there was Asian gang activity when none existed,
and the district attorney had issued the coup de grace by portraying me as a woman
so deranged by grief that she was attacking the very people who were trying to help
her.

I returned to the hotel, so embarrassed and discouraged that all I wanted to do was
cry.

The phone in my room was ringing when I entered my room.

It was the assistant publicist who had arranged the tour.

“We’re already getting calls about the program,” she told me. “Producers from several
major talk shows are interested in interviewing you, and we’ve had a firm invitation
from
Larry King Live.
You’re going to be on that show a week from Tuesday.”

“But it was a fiasco!” I exclaimed. “That captain said the Vietnamese angle was thoroughly
investigated, and the district attorney—”

“That’s what hooked their interest!” the publicist broke in. “A grief stricken mother
isn’t interesting unless there’s conflict. Larry King is going to let you spar with
the district attorney via satellite.”

“He’s
what
?” I gasped in horror. The talking heads on
Good Morning, America
had been intimidating enough, but at least I had been able to respond without interacting.  
A debate with the district attorney was out of the question. Not only was Schwartz
a slick and experienced prosecutor, he had a second persona as a stand-up comedian,
known for his barbed wit and his ability to verbally decapitate opponents.

“I can’t do it,” I said. “There’s no way I can ‘spar’ with Bob Schwartz.”

“You can’t turn this down,” the publicist told me. “
Larry King
is one of the most popular shows on television. Your book will get tremendous national
exposure.”

The week that followed passed in a blur of newspaper, radio and television interviews.
Every evening I would get on a plane and fly to a different city, check into a hotel,
sleep for a few hours, and get up to face a new round of appearances. New York, Connecticut,
New Jersey, Massachusetts, Ohio and Michigan slid past without making a dent in my
memory. I was so focused upon the frightening prospect of appearing on
Larry King Live
with Bob Schwartz flitting on and off the screen that I couldn’t think of anything
else. Then, the publicist called with a piece of truly chilling news. Rather than
appearing by satellite, Schwartz had now decided to fly to Washington D.C. to do the
show live.

The publicist was delighted. What a treat for the viewers! They would get to watch
the razor tongued district attorney humiliate me in person!

That night, in desperation, I sat down with a pencil and hotel stationary and started
mapping out a battle plan. I was painfully aware that I lacked the DA’s gift for showmanship,
but I did have one thing going for me — I knew more about the case than he did. I
could raise issues concerning the investigation that Schwartz very likely knew nothing
about.

I vowed to myself that I was not going to continue to be cast as a grief-crazed housewife
creating monsters out of dust balls. I would come to the show armed with facts so
inarguable and incriminating that APD’s handling of the case would be indefensible.

I arrived in Washington D.C. at 5 p.m. on June 9, after a full day of radio and television
interviews in Detroit. I checked into my hotel, pressed some clothes to wear on the
show, and had just begun to review my sheaf of notes when the phone rang.

It was Don calling from Albuquerque.

“Betty just sent us another reading,” he told me. “I think you’d do well to go easy
on APD tonight.”

“You can’t mean that!” I exclaimed. “This is our one big chance to get all our information
out there!”

“You can’t afford to blast the police,” Don said. “This reading says Kait’s killers
eventually will turn on each other and Dung will spill his guts. We’re going to need
the police to make the arrests. If you embarrass them, you may alienate them so badly
that they’ll bury all the tips this show may generate.”

“They probably don’t watch
Larry King Live
,” I said. “Doesn’t it come on opposite one of those cop shows?”

“Everybody in Albuquerque will be watching it tonight,” Don said. “All the TV stations
have interviewed Schwartz, and there’s a piece in tonight’s
Tribune
that says you and he are ‘bringing new life to what police describe as a dead murder
investigation.’”

“But my whole reason for being on the show—”

“Is to point out the problems with the case,” Don completed my sentence. “You can
still accomplish that, but let Larry King challenge Schwartz. Lois, this reading is
a step-by-step description of exactly how the case is going to develop. I’ll FAX it
to your next hotel. For now, just take my word that you need to go easy.”

I replaced the receiver on the hook and gazed uncertainly at my notes. So many of
Betty’s predictions had come to pass that it was hard to shrug off this one, especially
when Don appeared to be taking it so seriously. I wadded up my game plan and tossed
it into the wastebasket. Then I took the elevator down to the lobby and went outside,
where a studio limousine awaited me.

“There’s another guest too,” I told the driver. “I guess he hasn’t come down yet.”

“The guests on
Larry King
take separate limos,” the driver said.

“I don’t see him out here waiting for one,” I said doubtfully, scanning the sidewalk
for the sight of the bushy moustache that was the district attorney’s distinctive
trademark.

“They put him at a different hotel,” the driver told me. “They want their guests to
battle on the set, not in a hotel lobby.”

When I signed in at the studio, Schwartz’s signature was on the line above mine, so
I knew that he had arrived, although I still saw no sign of him. After a stint in
the make-up room, I was assigned to a small private waiting room where a television
set showed Larry King interviewing his first set of guests. After each commercial
break the jacket of my book would flash across the screen and Kait’s mischievous face
would twinkle at me and disappear again.

There was a self-conscious cough behind me, and I turned to see the district attorney
standing in the doorway, his face as plastered with pancake make-up as mine was.

“I just thought I’d check and see what I should call you on the show,” he said. “Do
you prefer to be ‘Ms. Duncan’ or ‘Mrs. Arquette’?”

“Call me ‘Lois,’ of course,” I said. “May I call you ‘Bob’?”

Before he could respond, a hand appeared out of nowhere, grabbed Schwartz by the collar
and yanked him out of view. A woman’s head replaced his in the doorway.

“You are not to speak to each other before the show,” she told me.

The woman vanished and came back several minutes later to escort me to the set. As
she led me down the hall we passed a second waiting room identical to mine where Bob
Schwartz sat in isolation in front of another TV set. He glanced up as I passed the
open door, and I gave him a thumbs-up sign, which I hoped he wouldn’t misinterpret.
He responded with a nod and a wave.

A commercial was in progress as I was ushered onto the set, seated at a table, and
equipped with a lapel mike. There was a surrealistic quality about the experience.
There, across the table from me, sat Larry King —
live!
— a big flesh and blood replica of the miniature face I was accustomed to seeing
on our TV screen, and there was no way to escape by switching channels.

“So, your name is—” Larry King consulted his notes— “your name is Lois Duncan and—
your daughter was
murdered?”

“Yes.” I was bewildered by the question. Wasn’t that why I’d been asked to appear
on the show?

“Let’s see,” he continued, still scanning the notes. “Her name was Kaitlyn—
Arquette?
Why do you have different last names? Was your daughter married?”

“Of course not,” I said. “Kait was only a teenager. My married name is Arquette, the
same as hers. Lois Duncan is my pen name.”

The awful truth hit me —
Larry King did not appear to have read the book!
This TV Superstar, whom Don had perceived as my knight-in-shining-armor, was preparing
to conduct an in-depth interview about a murder investigation that he seemed to know
little about. There was no way he could challenge Bob Schwartz with penetrating questions
if he wasn’t aware of the issues!

The commercial ended, and King’s face appeared on the monitor.

“It’s every mother’s worst nightmare, and Lois Duncan is living it,” King said, gazing
intently into the camera lens. “One night in July 1989, eighteen-year-old Kaitlyn
Arquette was brutally murdered during a high speed chase in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Police dismiss the case as a random shooting, but Kaitlyn’s mother, Lois Duncan, felt
that her daughter’s death was no accident and launched an exhaustive search for the
truth.”

I stared at him in amazement, terribly impressed. Nobody would have guessed that he
was coming out of nowhere.

His notes ran out and he turned to me for assistance.